The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom
by Aurilia
Summary: Vance finally gets around to doing NCIS' budget, and the reports from Abby's domain lead him to discover she wasn't always alone down there. He decides to rectify the situation and hopefully save a little money, too. Post S6, rating for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This is set post-S6, but I make references to the preseries episodes of _JAG_ (specifically, just in case you didn't already know, the episodes of _Ice Queen _and _Meltdown_) wherein we first met Tony, Gibbs, Abby, and Ducky, as well as Charles Sterling (most notably of _Frame Up_ and the episodes leading up to it)… Hell, you might as well figure that anything up through the season finale for S6 is fair game for spoilers (and don't plan on seeing Ziva resurface in this – the only S7 episode I've seen is _Flesh and Blood_, at least until the DVDs are released).

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter One_

At the close of his first year as Director, Vance finally got around to perusing the files he'd been putting off – namely, the financials and budget information. What he found had a headache pounding behind his eyes, and that was _before_ he managed to scrounge up a pile of bills for outsourced laboratory testing. It was enough to puzzle him – he knew that all the tests that showed in the bills were ones that could have been run on the premises (save for one or two that required equipment he knew the lab didn't have). The grand total spent quadrupled Ms. Scuito's annual salary.

He knew the forensic specialist preferred to work alone, but the bills he was staring at said that she needed help.

Like anyone promoted above their comfort-zone, it was hard to suddenly switch all the old instincts off and one of the first thoughts to cross his mind was, _Has it always been this way?_ Followed closely on its heels was, _How side-tracked was Shepard to have missed this?_ Vance scrubbed a hand across his face and glanced at his clock again. It was coming up on 2230, and he was grateful that his wife had taken the kids to her mother's for the week. The last thing he needed was _another_ night on the sofa in the den for missing dinner or a dance recital or a little league game.

Shoving thoughts of his faltering marriage down, he turned his attention to his computer, set on doing a little research.

An hour later, he found that Scuito hadn't always been alone in the lab – once upon a very long time ago, she was but the lowest-ranked new-hire tech among a team of five, all working under the direction of Dr. David Isaacs. In fact, she'd been hired almost a year to the date prior to DiNozzo's joining of NCIS. Not a week after she'd been hired, the five-person team was down to four when the documents specialist suffered a fatal heart attack. Two months later, the serologist/DNA analyst transferred to a private facility. And then the lab was down to Dr. Isaacs, Ms. Scuito, and the ballistics expert, Daniel Friedman. About a month before someone by the name of Caitlyn Todd had joined NCIS, Friedman had gotten himself smeared along the beltway when his VW Bug had ricocheted off the side of a semi truck. Less than a week later, Dr. Isaacs had retired, leaving the lab in Abigail Scuito's hands. Coinciding with Dr. Isaacs' retirement, the budget reports of years past had indicated that was the same year MTAC received massive equipment upgrades. The following year saw equipment upgrades go to the cybercrimes boys.

And that was when Morrow's meticulous records came to an end. Shepard, or so it seemed, was hopelessly unaware of how things were supposed to run in the lab, and had used the funds originally allocated for extra personnel towards upgrading first the employee lounge, then the gym, and then…

_Well, maybe she wasn't as clueless as I'd originally thought._

She had _tried_ to provide Scuito with an assistant. However, for all that all employees were supposed to undergo in-depth background checks and intense vetting processes, Charles Sterling had somehow managed to slip through the cracks. _Hell, who am I kidding? She probably didn't bother to do more digging than a fast-food manager looking for a drive-thru clerk. _ For all that he thought that the agency could use more agents with a solid grounding in technology, like Agent McGee, and that DiNozzo's personality simply grated on his last nerve, he didn't want to see the agent actually harmed. At least, not former-fed-in-prison harmed. Maybe a broken arm, a couple of bruised ribs, sure. But not _dead_. Besides, much as he hated to have to admit it, but the MCRT's solve-rate had as much to do with DiNozzo as it did with Gibbs – that much had been made quite patiently clear when he'd sent DiNozzo off afloating.

Vance sighed and reached for another toothpick, idly wishing he hadn't given up smoking. It did a hell of a lot more for his nerves than chewing the toothpicks did.

_Back to the task at hand._

Half an hour later, he'd come to a decision. Yeah, he was sure Scuito wasn't going to be too happy with him, but he hoped that she'd come to see reason, because he was damn sure that if Scuito left for the private sector, Gibbs would 'retire' again, and Dr. Mallard wouldn't be too far behind. Of course, DiNozzo had made no secret of his loyalty being with his boss first, and NCIS second, so he'd follow. And McGee, probably scared of being permanently reassigned to the subbasement, would go trailing after like the family puppy. Hell, he'd be lucky if he could manage to hang onto that kid that assisted down in Autopsy – _What the hell is his name again? _

He took a quick break to make himself some coffee. _Hopefully, there's someone in the files._

As the clock ticked around to 0300, all of the applications NCIS had received from hopefuls over the last four years had been separated into several piles. Bit by bit, the files were whittled down, and by the time the sun had started peeking over the horizon, there were only five possibilities in his stack. He set the alarm on his cell for nine, and stretched out on his sofa for a nap; the next step could, thankfully, be delegated.

* * *

A pile of files landed on Gibbs' desk with a staccato _crack_ that made McGee jump and had DiNozzo's ears perking up to eavesdrop. Jethro merely looked up from the report he was reading. "Something I can help you with, Leon?"

"Background checks," Vance replied, tapping the stack of personnel files. "I figure since your team seems to be the target for every grudge-holding son-of-a-bitch within the tri-state area, you can help head any problems off at the pass."

Gibbs barely glanced at the stack of folders before returning Vance's gaze, his eyes making a side-trip to the conspicuously empty desk where Ziva'd once sat. "Not interested."

"It's not for the empty slot on your team, Gibbs."

_That_ caught the team lead's attention. He removed his reading glasses. "MTAC?"

"No," Vance replied. "Let's just say I'm trying not to repeat my predecessor's mistakes and leave it at that – besides, it's not like you've got a whole lot else going on right now." The Director knew the team was currently wading through cold cases. "I need this stack narrowed down to three by the end of the day, but if none of them can stand having their dirt aired out and held to a microscope, let me know and I'll put out feelers at some of the graduate schools in the area." With that somewhat enigmatical statement, Vance strolled back to his office. _If I go back to sleep now, I might just be able to make it to that dinner meeting with the SecNav without looking like death warmed over._

* * *

It took maybe fifteen minutes for the MCRT to realize just what they were doing. Tim summarized it quite succinctly – Tony thought it probably had something to do with the writer side of him – when he said, "Abby's _really_ not going to like this, boss."

Gibbs didn't even bother to dignify that with a reply, but Tony sighed. "I don't think it matters if she likes it or not, Probie. Those pages that were between the third and fourth files? Those were the bills for the tests she's had to outsource this year. It's almost double what _I _make in a year – and I know I'm not really all that smart on the lab-monkey stuff you two do down there, but even _I_ know that a lot of those tests are ones she could have done if she hadn't been swamped with the evidence from our cases, Cassie's cases, Balboa's cases, and whatever trace the NCIS teams anywhere else on Earth can't make heads or tails of."

"She still isn't going to be happy," McGee replied.

"I know. So, let's make sure that we don't have to deal with another Sterling _and_ an unhappy Abby, okay?"

And so they buckled down and got to work.

It took ten minutes to rule out the first file. Julia Marie Heschelfeld, age twenty-five, married four years to Alan Heschelfeld, BS in Organic Chemistry from Cal-Tech, Masters in Forensic Studies from NYU, was summarily dismissed to the 'only if everyone else turns out to be psychopaths' pile simply for being Ron Sacks' little sister. The last thing anyone on Team Gibbs wanted was to give the FBI agent any more reason to come sniffing around NCIS' turf.

The second file contained information on a Nicolas Wade Harper, age twenty-four. He managed to pass muster with regards to his past; thanks in no small part to how he'd managed to acquire his BS in Anatomy from Texas A&M: Harper was a Marine, still listed as a reservist, currently working on his Masters in Ballistics at George Washington University. Despite Tim constantly muttering about how 'Abby _so_ isn't going to like this', Harper's file got set into the 'maybe' pile.

Ryan James Parker, age thirty, was initially dismissed for having a DUI on his record, then later, after all the other files had been scrupulously examined, they re-examined his history. Turned out, the ticket must've scared him, because he hadn't bothered renewing his license in the nine years since. He also had a BS in Bio-Chem from Yale, with a Masters in Hematology, also from Yale, and – oddly – a BA in photography from the University of South Carolina.

Samantha Leigh-Anne Carpenter-Irving, age twenty-eight, possessed a BA in journalism from UC-Berkeley, another BA in medieval history from the University of Iowa, a Masters in art history, also from the U of I, and a PhD in document authentication from Cornell University. She'd already been heavily vetted – her husband, thirty-five year-old Major Tarquin Julius Irving, was a research scientist with Fort Detrick. However, if there was one thing they'd learned over the years of working under Gibbs, it was to never take anything for granted. After all, wasn't Rule Three something along the lines of 'Always double-check'? (When it wasn't doing double-duty as 'Never be unreachable', of course. The somewhat schizophrenic nature of their boss's first few rules always managed to confuse most people – Tim and Tony had long learned to simply accept it.) However, the only bit they'd managed to add to Samantha's file was that she and Major Irving had three children – a six year-old daughter by the name of Hope, and a three year-old set of fraternal twins by the names of Fable and Grace – and two foster-children, twelve year-old Ekaterina Valentino and nine year-old Michael O'Shaunessy, and that Major Irving's twenty-seven year-old sister, Rebecca Louise Irving, also lived with them (and likewise had been heavily scrutinized when the Major had taken the posting at Fort Detrick).

The fifth file was barely cracked open before Gibbs, looking over Tony's shoulder, said, "Don't bother."

"Boss?"

"Ex number one's youngest brother," Gibbs replied.

Needless to say, _that _file got stacked right on top of the one for Sacks' little sister.

* * *

Vance woke from his nap nearly half an hour before he'd set his cell's alarm to go off. He'd had just enough time to move from the sofa to his desk when, true to Gibbs' character, his door burst open, revealing the lead MCRT agent. "Gibbs," Vance nodded in greeting. "What did you find?"

Gibbs sat the stack of files down on Leon's desk. "The top two would be my picks, the third one's a maybe. The last two should be shredded and burned."

"Have a seat," Vance indicated the chairs facing his desk and flipped open the first file in the stack. "Hmm… Wouldn't have thought this one would be one of the ones you picked."

"It's better than the youngest brother of my first ex-wife, Leon," Gibbs replied, choosing to remain standing.

Vance had the decency to wince a little. He sat the file aside and reached for the second. He nodded on reading it. "Now, this one I expected."

"You know Abby's not going to like this."

"I realize that, Jethro, but that's why I sent down copies of the bills she's incurred this past year. I don't care if she likes it or not, she's costing this agency more money by outsourcing tests I damn well know she's capable of running here than hiring a couple of additional techs. If it helps, I plan to bargain with her – she gets two assistants, when the budget originally put in place by Director Morrow had called for five lab-techs, and the additional funds will be put aside to eventually get her some of the 'cooler' toys she's been hinting at in her yearly requisitions." He closed the second file and opened the third. "Of course, these three still need to be interviewed, and unless I believe she's going to be a problem, Ms. Scuito can take part in the process. If she plans on being difficult, I will simply assign her assistants – and yes, I have read the report regarding Sterling's assignment. That's why I had your team do the background checks."

* * *

**A/N2:** I don't have this one fully wrote out just yet, and yes, I'm aware that nearly no one likes having a story introduce OCs, but…well, I'm enjoying the hell out of writing this, so I ain't gonna apologize. I hope to have weekly updates, but don't be surprised if I manage to update more quickly (or less often – RL has a habit of kicking my ass, especially now that I've got a job where I see overtime more often than a normal 40-hour week).

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And now we get to meet our OCs for this little tale. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Two_

Nervous didn't even begin to describe how Wade felt. He hated being interviewed. Ever since his first job as a drive-thru clerk back in high school, he'd hated everything about the entire process from worrying about keeping tidy beforehand to the 'whatifs' that raced through his brain the night before to the waiting-wait-wait-waiting for that damn call. Sure, he was a Marine and supposedly unflappable, but so was his dad and, as Nick Harper could attest, being a Marine didn't count for _nothing_ in the face of a bona fide phobia. To this day, Wade wasn't sure if his dad had ever forgiven him for the snake-in-the-bathtub incident when he was nine.

He was fine in a lab, he was fine working with his superiors in the Corps, hell, he was fine with the DI spitting in his face back on Paris Island, but put a job interview in front of him and suddenly his stomach sprouted vast quantities of butterflies. No, strike that. They weren't butterflies. They were moths. Giant, hairy, lunar moths. Lunar moths hopped up on caffeine and sugar like a six year-old on Beggar's Night; jittery and bouncing around and dizzying just to watch until they crashed out in a sugar-coma for the night, nauseous and dreaming odd thoughts about skeletons and Jack-o'-lanterns and invading chocolate saucers from Mars.

"Get a grip on yourself, Harper," he muttered, tearing his gaze from the bathroom mirror. He splashed a little cold water on his face. "Take a breath. It's an _interview_. Not the end of the world." A slightly panicked voice in the back of his head began a long tirade about the evils of interviews. Wade sighed. It was an old argument with himself that he wasn't going to win. He knew this and so gave up trying.

Once finished with his shower and other morning duties, he stared at the contents of his closet. Should he wear something business-formal? Or casual? And if he went with casual, would that be jeans? Or his lone pair of khaki slacks? He dismissed the thought of showing up in his preferred attire of jeans, a t-shirt, and flannel, but figured his normal boots would be acceptable. Besides, as far as footwear was concerned, it was either his cowboy boots, his dress-uniform shoes, or his combat boots.

He glanced at his clock. There was three hours to go before he had to leave. It might be just enough time.

Maybe.

* * *

Just across the greater DC Metro area, Ryan Parker was having no such qualms about the upcoming interview. He'd simply gotten up, just like on any other day, at four o'clock, ran for an hour, then went back to his house and took a shower, dressing in a mid-range dark blue suit more suited to the middle management of a bank than an actual scientist. He had a milk-and-egg-and-banana smoothie for breakfast while spending the next hour reading through the news online and exchanging a couple of emails with friends from college. If he hadn't had to take the subway to get to his interview, he likely would have wound up spending an hour at his current job before heading in, but since he wasn't planning on _ever_ having to get behind the wheel of a car again, he'd been forced to take a half-day of paid leave.

He wasn't the sort that liked to be idle for any amount of time.

Just before it was time for him to go, he printed an updated copy of his résumé, knowing it was always best to be prepared.

* * *

A little over forty miles to the north and west of DC, the Irving household was in complete chaos.

Becky was entertaining the twins by taking it in turns to chase first Fable, then Grace around and around the almost-a-wall that separated the kitchen area from the living room while Hope trailed after Kat, mimicking everything the twelve year-old was doing. Quin and Phoenix (also known as simply 'Michael' to anyone not family) were lobbing marbles out the kitchen window with a slingshot, aiming for the large oak in the back yard. Sam, not even bothering to look up from the pancakes she had cooking on the griddle, simply sighed and shook her head. "Whippoorwills nest on the _ground_, boys."

So, nothing unusual.

Quin grinned at his foster-son and they adjusted their aim to the base of the tree. They'd only managed to loose another couple of marbles before Sam spoke up again, "You damage my rose bush, and it'll be tofu for dinner tonight instead of lasagna."

The slingshot disappeared in short order.

"Breakfast almost done?" Quin asked, slipping up behind his wife and peering over her shoulder.

Sam smacked his hand with her spatula as he reached for the pancake batter. "Five minutes," she replied.

A slightly out-of-breath Becky – one giggling twin under each arm – leaned against the counter. "Hey, don't you have that interview thing today?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, but it's not until ten…I think."

Quin helped himself to the coffee. "Why are you going back to work again?"

Sam rolled her eyes and ignored the shrill protest from Kat as she screamed at Hope to 'knock it off, pipsqueak!' She made a small gesture with her chin to indicate the rapidly-escalating fight that was brewing at the breakfast table. "You need to ask?"

* * *

Harper climbed off his motorcycle and hung his helmet off the handlebars. He was five minutes early – at least, according to the instructions he'd been given that said to allow for an extra ten minutes to be escorted to the interview room. He'd been to the Yard dozens of times in the past eight years, but he'd never had cause to pay much attention to the NCIS building before, at least, not until Professor Harkin said he should put an application in. He'd figured it was a long-shot at the time; what with all the eager young postgraduates in the area, surely someone else was more qualified? But maybe his standing as a reservist gave him some brownie points…

Wade restrained – barely – the urge to knock himself upside the head. "Quit overthinking it, Harper. Just breathe already and you'll be fine."

It took him most of his five minute head start to work up the nerve to actually walk into the building.

* * *

The silence in the car was deafening. The radio wasn't even playing, and that was a sure sign that Samantha was well and truly _pissed_.

It wasn't until after the new(ish) Jeep had left the guard shack behind and went in search of a parking spot that Sam spoke, her voice laced through with disappointment and something…something _else_ that Kat simply couldn't name. "Do you want to tell me what you were thinking?"

Kat shrugged, not really sure what Sam wanted her to say. Sure, she may be the oldest of the kids, but she'd also only been with the family a little over a year. Kat was almost positive they were going to send her back now.

Sam found a parking place, and even though she was angrier than a wet cat, she couldn't help but cast an appreciative eye over the Harley in the next slot over. After turning the car off, she turned to face Ekaterina. "Well?"

"Dunno," Kat mumbled.

"You set Hope's _hair_ on fire, Ekaterina! You had to have been thinking _something_!"

Kat crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window.

Sam made an odd growly noise at the back of her throat. "Fine. You don't want to talk, you don't have to talk. But you will remain seen and _not _heard until further notice, do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." This time, Kat's voice was loud enough to be clearly heard.

Samantha reached over and laid a finger across the girl's lips. "No, I don't think you understood, Katling. Not one word." Sam reached for the door handle and paused. Sighing a little, she flipped the visor down and made sure the brown wig Becky'd loaned her was still securely in place. "Come on, then."

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Parker," Vance greeted the brunette with a professional handshake. He could tell, without even having to look in Scuito's direction, that she had taken an immediate dislike to the thirty year-old.

"Director Vance," Ryan returned the greeting. He glanced over at the tall woman with black hair bound up in twin pigtails. She was made even taller by the six-inch platform boots she wore, which only managed to make her red-and-black plaid skirt seem even shorter. The plaid of her skirt matched the plaid trim of her blouse and complemented the red leather choker she wore. He wasn't sure why, but it immediately brought to mind uncomfortable memories of Catholic school.

"Have a seat," the Director motioned to the conference table set up in an otherwise empty area of the room. "This is Abigail Scuito, head of our forensics lab."

Abby almost laughed at the disbelieving look on Parker's face. She managed to stomp the urge down, however, and simply sat on the other side of the table from Parker. After minor pleasantries, such as the offer for a glass of water, were made and politely declined, Vance opened the interview with, "So, Mr. Parker. Why don't you tell us why you think you'd be a good fit for our forensics laboratory?"

Vance asked the questions while Abby took notes.

As the interview concluded, and Vance escorted Parker back to the door, Abby sighed and tore the page she'd been writing on off her notepad and left on top of Parker's file at Vance's position on the table.

There was ten minutes before the next interview was due to begin and Abby wisely took the time to visit the ladies' room – the five Caf-pows she'd had since waking up that morning were beginning to make themselves known. As she passed Vance, she said, "My opinion, if it means anything, is on his file." Yeah, Vance was pretty sure she was still pissed at him, but at least she wasn't threatening to dispose of his body parts by feeding them to alligators any more.

Somehow, the single page of notes didn't surprise him at all. It was simply a repetition of the word 'no' in varying sizes and styles, save for the large, blocky 'oh, HELL no' across the middle of the page.

* * *

As Abby left the restroom, the unmistakable sound of someone tossing their cookies in the men's room caused her to halt in her tracks. She knocked on the door before opening it a crack. "You alright in here?" she called out.

A voice she was unfamiliar with cleared his throat and replied, somewhat shakily, "Yeah. Will be, at any rate."

"You don't sound too sure." Abby stepped into the restroom, but held the door open behind her.

The sound of a toilet flushing drowned out the man's reply, but it didn't take eyes as sharp as Abby's to see that though he wore a somewhat crooked grin as he exited the stall (which morphed into an appreciative leer that could have given Tony a run for his money when he saw just who had been inquiring as to his health), he was still a pasty shade of whitish-green which contrasted sharply with the grey-blue blazer he wore over a black turtleneck and pair of khaki pants. He paused long enough at the sink to wash out his mouth and splash some cold water on his face. Abby handed him a paper towel. "I'm Abby," she said by way of introduction.

"Wade," the man replied, taking the paper towel. "Thanks, by the way. Think you're the first who's asked if I was okay."

"Like…_ever_, or just today?"

"Just today, Miss Abby. I'm normally okay, but I've got this interview thing today… That and tests just, well, them and me just don't get on well."

Thinking of Tim's similar reaction to tests, his comment about the interview just bypassed Abby's brain. She chuckled, "I sorta understand. I never had problems with tests myself, but my friend, Tim McGee, he's like you. You should've seen him a few months ago; he was supposed to take a polygraph – well, everyone was supposed to take one, but that's beside the point – and he was so stressed out that I told him we could practice, so we cobbled together a homemade one and hooked him up, and he couldn't even answer the question about his name without it sounding off until he realized that he doesn't _just_ go by his regular name…well, he's got a pen-name for when he writes, too, but we'd already mentioned that, until Gibbs came in and sorta reminded him that he's got this whole long list of nicknames that Tony gave him and he's the really painfully honest type that would count a nickname as a whole other alias."

By the time Abby wound to a close, Wade had forgotten to be nervous and was just staring at the woman who'd dropped in on him.

He was silent long enough that Abby had to ask, "What?"

He shook his head, "Just never seen someone get that much out all in one breath before. Was startin' to wonder if you were gonna pass out or not."

Abby smiled, "No, I can talk _way_ longer before I pass out."

"I'd believe it." The high-pitched beeping from Wade's wristwatch made the healthy color drain from his face again. He sighed. "That's my cue, I s'pose. You didn't happen to see a secretary-type standing outside, did you? They told me downstairs I wasn't to wander around without an escort."

"I didn't see anyone when I stepped in, but I can take you where you need to go."

"Thank'ee kindly, Miss Abby," Wade tipped an imaginary hat at her.

Abby mock-curtsied and held out her elbow. "Where to?"

"S'posed to have a talk with the Director in a bit, but I'm seriously reconsidering," Wade replied, snaking his arm through the crook of Abby's elbow.

It finally dawned on Abby just why Wade was there. "Oh, don't reconsider. You came this far, right? And actually going in and talking with Vance can't be worse than puking your guts out was, right? Wouldn't you hate to have put yourself through all that for nothing?"

"Guess you got a point," Wade admitted as they made their way down the garishly orange hallway back to the outer office for the director. Halfway between the restroom and the Director's office, Wade sniffed and asked, "Is that your perfume? Cordite and rose oil?"

"Yep," Abby replied. "Made it myself. Why?"

"No reason," Wade smiled his cockeyed grin at her, "just like it is all. Very '80s hairmetal of you."

Abby chuckled again. "You're the first to realize."

"What can I say, I've been a fan since grade school."

By then, they'd arrived at Vance's outer office. While Wade had been gone, a woman with long, brown hair and silver-framed glasses had arrived. She was wearing an ankle-length dark green skirt and with a matching green-and-black leaf-patterned lace shirt. A girl of eleven or twelve sat next to her on the low sofa facing the secretary's desk, her arms crossed over her chest and looking like she was trying to glare the green leafy plant on the desk to death. The secretary herself was rapidly paging through a file and talking with someone on the phone. She caught sight of Wade and made an apologetic gesture to the phone. Wade just smiled and shook his head at her as though to say, 'Don't worry about it'.

The secretary covered the receiver and spoke to Wade, "You can go on in."

"Thanks," Wade replied and turned to Abby. To his surprise she simply continued on to the door. Wade opened it and stepped inside.

"Nicolas Harper?" Vance greeted the newcomer, somewhat reassured by the fact that Ms. Scuito seemed to like him already.

Wade shook his head, "That's my dad, sir. I go by my middle name, Wade."

Abby let go of his arm so that he could shake the director's hand. "I see you've already met Ms. Scuito, our lead forensic technician."

The last vestiges of anything remotely resembling healthy color leeched out of Wade's face and Abby was almost positive he was simply going to pass out.

By sheer force of will, Wade managed to push back the impending desire to do just that and swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

"Have a seat," Vance replied, also not too sure if the kid was going to remain upright much longer.

Years later, Wade had to wonder just what he'd said during the interview. His only memory of the event after sitting down in Vance's office was of a panicky sense of embarrassment.

* * *

Sam quirked an eyebrow at the off-duty Marine who just exited the office. _He looks like he could use a stiff drink._ The secretary made a shooing motion at Sam as she hurried to catch up with him. "Come on, Kat."

With one hand on her foster-daughter's shoulder, Sam walked them to the door and knocked as she opened it. She poked her head in, "Director Vance?"

"Come in," the Director replied, getting up from the table where he'd been conversing with the woman who'd escorted the shell-shocked Marine into the office about half an hour earlier. "Mrs. Carpenter-Irving?"

Samantha finished pushing the door open, "Yeah, but it's just 'Irving' most of the time. Unless you want to call me Sam, of course." She stepped fully into the office and pushed the door closed behind her with her foot. "This," she nodded to Kat, "is Ekaterina. Katling, please explain to Director Vance just why I had to bring you with me today."

Sam pushed Kat forwards a couple of steps and let go of her shoulder.

Kat cast a dirty look back at her mom, which just caused Samantha to shake her head slightly. The preteen sighed. "I set Hope's hair on fire."

Abby had meandered over to Sam and Vance while they were making their introductions. "Who's Hope?" she asked.

Kat, still staring at Vance's red-and-white striped tie, replied, "My foster-sister."

"How old is she?"

"Six."

Vance suffered an instant-headache at the mental image of Kayla setting Jared's hair on fire and made a mental note to keep his girl as far away from 'Kat' as humanly possible, but the dad in him had him asking, "Why would you do a thing like that?"

The girl shrugged and her gaze lowered to staring at Vance's shoes. "She was copying."

_Ahh, that explains it – the surest way to drive a sibling totally insane._ Jared had managed to get decked twice by Kayla for that very same transgression. Vance glanced at Sam; the woman's expression was surprisingly easy to read. He nodded minutely and knelt down to look Kat in the eye. "Do you know who I am, Ekaterina?"

She shrugged. "Some director-guy," her forehead wrinkled a little and her gaze darted to his eyes briefly. "Is that like a principal?"

"Feels that way sometimes," Vance replied, thinking of the prevalence of pranking that went on if the MCRT was bored. "But what it means is that I'm in charge here. Do you know what we do here?"

Kat shook her head.

"We investigate crimes, like the police."

"Oh."

Vance made sure the girl was listening when he continued, "And did you know that what you did to your sister, if you'd been a little older, can be considered a crime? It's called 'aggravated assault', and if the other person is hurt bad enough, it might even be called 'attempted murder'."

Kat paled and swallowed hard. "But…"

Sam's hand landed on Kat's shoulder again. "That's enough, Katchild. Why don't you go back out and sit on the sofa? This shouldn't take very long."

Kat nodded and slunk back out to the outer office. When the door closed behind her, she turned to Vance. "Thank you. I've been trying to get through to her for the last two weeks about picking on Hope, but nothing I said was penetrating her thick skull; every time I tried, out came the 'you're not my mother' defense. You said just the right thing to get her to listen."

Vance, who had climbed back to his feet, cocked his head slightly sideways. "What was that?"

"The big 'M' word, Director," Sam replied. "It's how she wound up with us – she got to watch her mother's boyfriend beat her to death with an empty whisky bottle." Ignoring the looks that surfaced on the others' faces, Sam strode over to the conference table and took a seat that wasn't obviously occupied already. "Now that the drama's dispensed for the day, shall we?"

* * *

Parker rode the subway home from work that night in sullen silence. He'd never failed at an interview before and just couldn't understand what he'd done wrong.

* * *

**A/N2:** I _still_ don't recall if Cynthia is Vance's secretary in S6 or not – anyone got a yes/no on this one for me? Anyone? Bueller?

Oh, and I've always thought that Abby's homemade gunpowder-and-rose perfume was a subtle nod to the band Guns'n'Roses, but I could be wrong on that. I find it amusing at any rate.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Since no one can confirm or deny Cynthia as Vance's secretary in S6, I'm going to keep her. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews; they make my day a little brighter.

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Three_

Quin always managed to be amused at how his wife woke up. It also irritated him, but that was just because she was the only person he'd ever met that honestly didn't need an alarm clock – if she said she was going to sleep for two hours, that's how long she slept and not a microsecond longer. The amusing side of it was the fact that _how_ Sam woke _never_ changed; first her head would turn to face the opposite direction of how she'd been originally, then, starting with her toes, she'd _stretch_. The movement inching its way up through her feet to her calves, twitching past her knees and up into her thighs, across her stomach, arching her back as it rolled past and up into her shoulders, skipping past her neck and into her face and ending in a yawn that always – _always_ – ended with a _squeak_.

Today was no different.

"Morning," Quin greeted her with a mug of coffee.

"Mmmhmm." Yeah, Samantha wasn't all too coherent just after waking up. She buried her nose in the steam rising off the mug. She let out a low moaning sound as the steam wafted through her sinuses. Quin had long since gotten used to being slightly disturbed that it was the exact same sound she made when he nibbled on her neck…well, _mostly_ used to it. _Hell of a thing, Irving, to be jealous of a cup of joe._

"Becky wanted to know if you'll be needing her wig again," Quin said as Sam slowly slurped her way through the coffee.

Sam shook her head, her chin-length curls bouncing slightly as she did so. "Nah, think I'm good on that."

"How so?" Their voices echoed strangely in the house – Becky had taken off with the kids for a week of camping, fishing, and swimming at one of the innumerable state parks in the area.

Sam drained the last of the coffee and handed the empty mug back to her husband. "'Cause I don't think they're all too concerned about keeping up appearances in the lab, hon. The lead tech showed up to the interview in a dog collar, platform boots, and a miniskirt. I don't think that my hair's gonna turn too many heads."

Quin chuckled, "That so?"

"Yeah." Samantha reached over to the bedside table and snagged her glasses. After settling them on her face, she stretched again and finally climbed out of bed. "Remind me to buy Becky something particularly nice when she gets back with the horde."

Recalling their activities of the night before – _Or should that be early this morning?_ – Quin smirked, "Won't have to, sweetheart. Planned on doing likewise myself."

Sam echoed Quin's smirk and set about finding some clean clothes. "So, were you gonna catch a ride in with one of the guys today, or was I dropping you off?" Since Becky had the kids, she also had the family's second car – a red, white, and chrome vintage VW mini-bus.

Quin shrugged, "Should probably drop me off. I'll catch a ride with Morgan tonight, though. I'll need the jeep on Friday, however, so I s'pose _I'll _take _you_ in then."

Sam slipped into a pair of boot-cut jeans. "Sounds like a plan." A black-and-white newsprint-patterned t-shirt momentarily muffled her words. The legend across the chest read 'English: a language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary'. "Wanna catch breakfast at Hugo's?"

* * *

Because Wade was still attending school, he wouldn't be arriving at the lab until sometime between two and three that afternoon. Abby had also told Sam to come in at ten, so she still had about three hours of having her lab to herself. She took the time to greet her 'army' and spent a little quality time with each of them, letting her computers and microscopes and Maj. MassSpec know that she still loved them dearly, but that 'the toothprick upstairs' was making her share.

She still wasn't too happy about having to give up some space, but she could understand why – the numbers Vance had confronted her with left little room for interpretation.

By the time the clock read 0945, Abby felt she might be able to handle this. It helped that Gibbs had already cleared the newbies; though she didn't admit it to anyone, she still had nightmares about Chip from time to time. When her phone rang, however, it nearly startled her out of her skin. It was the guard in the lobby, letting her know that Mrs. Carpenter-Irving had arrived.

Abby let the guard know she'd be right there, and squared her shoulders as she hung up the receiver. "That's that, then," she said. "Come on, you can do this."

She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly.

* * *

Sam lounged against the security desk in the lobby, gathering more than a few odd looks in her direction. When she saw her new boss exit the elevator, she had to grin. Today's ensemble consisted of a tight pair of black bondage-pants, crisscrossed with chains and straps, another pair of platform boots (which, judging by the pattern of the stacked soles were indeed different than the pair worn during the interview), and a t-shirt that displayed the lip-logo for _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. Instead of high pigtails, her hair was bound up in twin French braids, and she wore a studded collar and cuffs that exactly matched the belt threaded around her waist.

The boss's eyes skimmed the people in the lobby, lighted briefly on Sam's hair, and resumed scanning. As the frowny-lines appeared on her forehead, Sam took pity on the girl and chuckled. "Ms. Scuito, I'm over here."

Her head twisted back around fast enough that Samantha had a momentary worry regarding whiplash, but it quickly evaporated when Scuito blinked at Sam's hair.

"Blue?" Abby said, not quite sure if it was a question or a statement.

Sam shrugged, "Lost a bet with my sister-in-law."

Without the makeup she'd worn during the interview, Abby could see that Samantha's eyebrows and lashes were a rich, dark red. Despite herself, she was coming to like her new assistant. "What bet?"

Sam shook her head, "Maybe I'll tell you someday. Right now, it ain't important."

Abby let it go and motioned towards the elevators. "Okay, then, first stop's admin." As they got into the elevator, Abby hit the button printed with a '2'. "You might want to take notes – learning your way around the building's gonna take a while."

"Should I be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?" Sam asked, a wry little smirk quirking the corners of her mouth.

Abby shrugged, "Couldn't hurt."

During the ten minutes it took to make their way up to the second floor, then across to HR, Sam realized Abby hadn't been joking. Though the building hadn't seemed very large from the outside, NCIS HQ was bigger than it looked and seemed to have been designed by the same guys who built the mazes used to test lab-rats. Vertically, admin was sandwiched between legal and interrogation; horizontally, it boasted a corner office that shared walls with a rest room and the main storage room for general office supplies.

Gloria, the HR rep who had the time to do so, took Sam's photo in front of a backdrop the same shade of blue used at the DMV. "You'll need to have your photo updated yearly," Gloria said while Sam blinked the afterimage of the flash from her eyes. "More often if your face or hair undergoes a drastic change, which includes color."

Sam couldn't fail to catch the disapproval in Gloria's voice. "Don't worry, this isn't a regular thing – I plan to let it grow out." She snorted, "If I didn't, no one would believe it's natural otherwise."

While waiting for her ID to print, the next step was a retinal scan, so she'd be able to access the evidence garage, followed by the surprisingly labor-intensive process of having a complete set of fingerprints taken. "What's this for?" Sam asked Abby, while Gloria used an ink-roller to slather the palm of her left hand in black.

"Everyone who handles evidence – techs, agents, _everyone_ – gets entered into AFIS, just in case something happens and we have to rule out a stray print," Abby explained.

Sam shook her head and winced as Gloria tugged on her wedding ring. "Sweetie, that don't come off. I broke that finger on my honeymoon, and short of a pair of big-ass scissors, it ain't coming off." The HR rep glared at her, but Sam ignored it and returned her attention to Abby. "Not what I meant. I kinda figured on that, but I wasn't expecting to be dipped in India ink halfway to my elbows."

Abby just chuckled.

Twenty minutes later, and even Sam's unerring sense of direction was starting to feel off-kilter as Abby led her up one hall and down another, traversing staircases and elevators, pointing out areas of interest along the way and spending much of the time talking nonstop about people Sam hadn't met yet – four in particular, by the names of Gibbs, Tony, Tim, and Ducky, only slightly less often mentioning ones by the names of Ziva and Palmer. An hour into the tour, and Samantha was wondering if they'd ever actually get to the lab.

An hour and fifteen minutes after leaving HR behind, they arrived at autopsy, only to find it deserted. "Uh-oh," Abby murmured, turning on her heel and scrambling for the elevator they'd just climbed out of.

"What?" Sam called after her, hurrying to catch up.

"Only reason Ducky and Palmer to both be gone this time of day is if they got called out, which means someone's going to be brining me work to do and if I'm not there and it was Gibbs' team that got the call then El Jefe's gonna be _so _disappointed…well," she smacked the button on the elevator's panel, "maybe not disappointed, more like angry, because even though I'm the favorite, and the others wouldn't believe it much, but he does get mad at me from time to time, even if he's never Gibbs-slapped me before because of it, but there's a first time for everything and –"

The _ding_ of the elevator cut her off and Sam found herself being dragged down a short hall and into the lab itself. A tall man – wearing one of the ugliest vintage goldtone-and-cream brocade button-downs that Sam had ever had the misfortune of seeing – was leaning against a steel-topped table, a plastic tote next to him, and playing something on his cell phone; Samantha was pretty sure it was Tetris, judging by the sound. "About time you got here," he said, snapping his phone shut.

While Abby babbled out something apologetic-sounding, Sam smirked and chewed on the inside of her lip; it was obvious the guy was having her on. _He probably hadn't been waiting longer than ten minutes._ She let her new boss ramble on and on for a few minutes, and it didn't take long for the guy to start showing little twinkles of humor. Sam cleared her throat and stepped forwards, "Um, not to interrupt, but he's pulling your chain."

Abby's babble halted as she glanced from her new assistant to Tony and back. The mildly irritated look on Tony's face was enough to confirm that the new girl was right, without him even opening his mouth, which, of course, he did. "How could you tell? And who are you again?" Yes, DiNozzo knew very well who Sam was, but Sam didn't know that.

"Sam Irving," she said, holding out her hand. "First day today. And you are…?"

"_Very_ Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," he cranked up the charm a little.

"That so?" she said, shaking his hand. "Well, can I ask you something, Mr. Very Special Agent-man?"

"Sure," Tony replied. _Blue hair or not, she's really kinda cute._

"Who shot the couch?" Sam gestured to his shirt. "Because this? Yeah, I'm having flashbacks to Gramma Carpenter's high school prom dress. Same damn print, even."

"Hey!" Tony protested while Abby choked down a laugh. "This is my favorite shirt! Nice _Elvira_ quote, by the way, but still – hey!"

"Is for horses, and grass is cheaper," Sam said. "You're oh-for-two, Mr. Special Agent-man. Wanna try for three?"

"Nah," Tony replied, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'll quit while I'm ahead."

"Don't you mean behind?" Abby asked.

Tony shook his head, "Whatever." He returned his attention to Sam, "You still didn't answer my question. How'd you know I hadn't been here all that long?"

Sam grinned. "Honey, I've got kids. You had the same 'innocent' look on your face that my Phoenix had on his when I got home from the store last week to find out that _someone_ had eaten the last of my cookie-stash."

"Who's Phoenix?" Tony had to ask – he knew from her file that none of her kids had such an unusual name.

"Michael, my foster-son. Actually, another six months, and his adoption will be finalized. His dad took off when he was a baby, mom was killed in a car-accident when he was five, and about a year later, his grandparents were killed when their house burned down. Child services dropped him off with us two days after that, and well… He's our Phoenix." There was something indefinable about the subtle shift in Sam's face when she talked about her kids – the mischief dropped away and pride shone through instead.

Abby interrupted them before they could get even more off-topic. "So, what did you bring me, Tony?"

"Ah, got a DPORCP for you."

Abby sighed. "Yay," she said, sounding bored. "Gimme anyway," she made a grabby gesture towards the plastic tote."

"Excuse me?" Sam asked, somewhat confused at the acronym. "But what's a 'DPORCP'?"

Simultaneously, Abby and DiNozzo replied, "A Dead Petty Officer at Rock Creek Park."

Samantha blinked. "It happens often enough it's got its own _acronym_?"

Again, the reply was in stereo while Abby scribbled on the evidence logs. "Yes, it does."

"Sounds like a curse," Sam said. "Maybe someone should put up a warning sign?"

Tony snorted. "Yeah, I can see it now. _Warning: If you are a Naval Petty Officer, please be aware this park is cursed and there is a better-than-average chance you'll never go home again._"

Sam shook her head, her blue curls bouncing. "No, that's not quite right – doesn't sound official enough."

"Well, you do better, then." Tony handed the last plastic-wrapped bundle of bloody cloth to Abby. "When you've got it _just_ right, lemme know."

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Sam stepped around Abby to peer at the evidence bags now strewn across the table. "What do you want me to do?" she directed her question at Abby.

The goth finished logging the last bag and gestured towards her office. "Don't think I'll need much help in the way of documents on this one, so I've got something I want you to look over in my office. I'll be there in a minute."

"No problem," Sam wandered into the office and kicked back in a spare chair. _You know, it'd just be easier for us both if you'd tell me to my face what you think, kiddo. I can do research, too, you know. Traditionally, I'm the one who should be in charge down here – you only are because you've got the seniority and I wouldn't want to be a supervisor if you held a gun to my head. I hate being in charge – get enough of that crap at home._

While Sam was left to her thoughts in the office, Abby and Tony exchanged a few quick words. "What do you think of your new help?"

Abby shrugged, "I don't know yet. I like her personality and she's a good listener, but I don't know if she knows what she's doing. I was going to give her some of the evidence from a couple of old cases. The toothpick said I had a week to finalize my decision – but he said if I didn't like her and the guy we interviewed, he was going to start assigning _interns_ from GW."

Tony humored her with a melodramatic shudder, "_Interns_? As in starving-college-undergrad _interns_? Is he _trying_ to cripple our solve-rate?"

Abby shrugged, "I have no idea. I don't know if he really meant it or if he just has that good a poker face, but all things being equal, I'd almost rather work with _Chip_ again than an _intern_."

Tony checked the time on his phone, "I should probably head upstairs, Abs. Gibbs and McGee should be back any minute now."

After DiNozzo headed towards the elevator, Abby took a moment to stare through the glass door at Samantha. Her new assistant was staring at the poster mounted behind the desk, turning her head first one way, then the other, before shaking her head a little. Abby could clearly read Sam's mouth saying 'What the hell…?'

Nodding to herself, Abby straightened her shoulders and strode into her office. She picked up the evidence file-box off of her desk and a pen, both of which she handed to Samantha. "Step one – you have to sign the log, date it, and mark the time."

Sam did so. "Not quite like getting presents from your uncle, huh?"

"No. Next, I want to see what you make of the evidence inside. I hope I don't have to tell you to always wear gloves?"

Sam chuckled, "You just did, but you didn't have to. It's just like doing artwork authentication at a museum, I'd imagine. Only in that case, the gloves are to keep the oils in your hands from corrupting the art – you'd be surprised what a little sweat can do to a piece of paper that's three hundred years old."

"Remind me later to introduce you to Ducky," Abby replied. "While you're working on this, I'll be out in the lab. Let me know if you need to use any of the equipment."

Sam shook her head a little at Abby's retreating back. "Sure," she whispered. "I'll do that. You really don't want me here, do you?" She sighed and opened the brown file. "You know, on second thought, this is _exactly_ like getting presents from my uncle." Her Dad's brother never failed to send her a new stationary set every year for her birthday.

A moment later, she amended the thought with, "Well, maybe not."

The letter was written on heavy cream parchment paper, in thick, shining black ink that still looked wet, even after a good four years, if the dates on the box were anything to go by. "Beautiful calligraphy," Sam muttered, then sat it aside for further scrutiny. The next bit in the box was a bag containing a vial of beige powder, which she did little more than glance at before setting it aside. The next bag had another vial, somewhat larger than the first, which contained a strip of a spongy-looking black substance. Likewise, Sam sat it aside. The last baggie in the file contained an envelope, gilded on one side, and made of a similar heavy parchment, with a pair of lip-prints on both the gilded inner side and outer flap-side of it. Setting the two baggies containing the vials back in the box, she carried the letter and envelope out to the main lab. Helping herself to a pair of blue nitrile gloves from a box in the far corner of the lab (and judging from the light coat of dust on the box, she was pretty sure she'd be the only one using them – not that she had much choice in the matter, not with her latex allergy), she watched Abby for a moment.

The goth was snipping a tiny fragment of bloodied fabric from the corner of a blue handkerchief. Sam opened her mouth to get her new boss's attention, but she suddenly realized something. "Um… Hey, got a coupla questions for you."

"Already?" Abby smirked to herself.

"Yeah, 'already'. First off, you never said what I should call you."

"My name's Abby – you can use that."

"Good, never did like having to call someone 'hey you'. Second question – you got a jeweler's glass around here anywhere? Or should I be using something else?"

Abby's smirk faded. _Figures. Good questions both._ Despite herself, she was starting to actually like Sam. "Second drawer down in that cabinet," she gestured off to the right. "Whacha think so far?" She was honestly curious as to Sam's opinion, particularly considering the actual contents of that specific letter.

"I'll let you know," Sam replied, heading for the cabinet in question. It didn't take long to locate the jeweler's glass, along with a few other implements she thought she might need, as well as a notepad and a pen. She moved to the slightly-dusty corner station and sacrificed a few minutes to clean it off and find the light switch for the document lamp before wriggling her hands into the 'Smurf-gloves' and focusing on her work.

Two hours later, Sam about jumped out of her skin when Abby tapped her on the shoulder. "God _damn_, girl! Make some noise next time!"

"I called your name like three times!" Abby protested, even as she laughed internally. _No wonder Gibbs is always sneaking up on people; it's really fun!_

"I'm gonna get you a bell," Sam replied, still waiting for her pulse to drop back to an acceptable level. It was only then that she realized that there was now music playing. "Isn't that _Suicide Commando_?"

Abby's opinion of Sam jumped a full ten percent. "Yeah! You a fan, too?"

"Not really, but Kat is. Drives me nuts at home, too."

And her opinion crashed back down to only two percent above where it had been previously – _She deserves a few points just for being able to recognize them._ "Anyway," she gestured to the letter and envelope, "what did you find?"

"The paper's thirty-four pound bleached cotton rag, likely processed from recycled dryer lint, with no watermark. This means that it was either a custom order or that someone besides me has some interesting hobbies. If I had to pick, I'd say it was a custom order from a professional small-order papermaker. The edges are deckled and the chain-lines are consistent with deckle manufacture, but the chain-lines themselves are nothing spectacular, just industry-standard sizing. What _is_ interesting, and why I figure this to have been a professional order, is that it's uniformly thick and the writing surface appears bound with gelatin. Amateur papermakers can't usually create a consistent thickness and even when they do, they almost never think to coat the paper for an even writing surface."

_Is this how Gibbs and Tony feel when McGee and me go off on our tech-rambles?_ Abby nodded, "Go on." _I feel like I should be taking notes._

"The ink I'm pretty sure is just common India ink, both on the letter and the envelope. The outer envelope is likewise thirty-four pound bleached cotton rag, but from a different batch than the paper – if you look at both with the jeweler's glass," Sam handed it to the goth, who leaned over the lightbox for a closer look, "you can see that the envelope has a higher number of blue threads that didn't wholly bleach. The gilding's common leaf gold, twenty-karat unless I miss my guess, and applied without glue – they would have applied the leaf while the paper was still damp, then rolled it and applied the gelatin coating to the writing surface. On the envelope itself, the postmark is genuine." Sam paused and took a breath. "Now, as to the contents of the envelope…well, I can't speak as to whether or not its claims are accurate –"

"They were."

Sam winced. "Ouch. Anyway, I _can_ say that it was written by a southpaw, and that whoever it was was mentally impaired in some way. The calligraphy appears perfect, but if you look close at the cross-bars, you can see slight wavering. I can't tell just by looking if it was because they had too much caffeine, or if they were nervous, or if it was some sort of neurological disorder, but it's there."

"She had a brain tumor," Abby replied. "And she'd been under the impression that NCIS had covered up the rape of her daughter – turned out the girl hadn't been raped, she'd just had some horrible luck."

"What the…?" Sam's confusion was blatantly obvious on her face. "Rotten luck?"

"Yeah," Abby had gotten the full story from Cassie. "She and her boyfriend were having a weekend at the hotel – the return address on the envelope – and a game went wrong."

"Gerald's Game wrong?"

Abby nodded, "Almost. The boyfriend had run out for some takeout, got hit by a car. Maid found her two days later."

Sam let out a low whistle. "Damn."

"No kidding." Abby nodded towards the papers Sam had been examining. "What would you do next?"

"If this were an active case?" Abby nodded. Sam shrugged, "Well, you'd need to confirm my assumptions about the ink, and I'd also ask you to verify that it's gelatin that's the surface binder. Since it doesn't have a watermark, sometimes the surface binder can be used to trace the manufacturer. For example, Cottonfield uses a very low quantity of red dye in all their surface bindings, while Crestile Textiles prefers to use a high-density paraffin blend. It's not my area, sure, but if I were you, though, my _first_ step would have been to see if the words on the letter were true and not just blowing smoke."

Abby chuckled, "And that's exactly what I did."

The pair stared at each other for a long moment before Sam asked, "Well…?"

"Well what?"

"I assume this was a test. Did I pass?"

Abby thought hard for a few minutes. An enigmatical smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she handed the jeweler's glass back to Sam. "You'll do," she said.

* * *

**A/N2:** Before anyone calls me out on it, the type of fingerprinting mentioned in this chapter is known as a 'major case' fingerprint card – and if you want more info than you'll ever need on the topic of fingerprinting, I'd recommend checking out Fingerprint Science: How to Roll, Classify, and Use Fingerprints by Clarence Gerald Collins. His is my primary source for all things fingerprinty when I write mysteries; though the version I have on hand is probably older than most of y'all reading this (the chapter it has on AFIS is laughably out-of-date – I have better sources on technology).

And I mean no insult to interns – just that I personally like to think that Abby would rather have someone who's already finished their degree working around her 'babies'. (And yes, I know Wade is still working on his Masters, but there's extenuating circumstances with that…)

And for those of you who don't know already, Gerald's Game is a Stephen King novel about a woman who was tied to her bed when her husband died.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And here's the next installment for y'all – hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Four_

Wade couldn't believe he'd actually gotten the job, but he was happy about it nonetheless. He parked his motorcycle in the same space he'd used during his interview the week before and resettled his backpack before heading up to the red brick building that he hadn't paid any attention to until that past Thursday. He was just about to reach for the door handle when a familiar voice stopped him, "Hey! Harper!"

Wade grinned and spun around. "Garrett! When'd you get back from Iraq?"

"A week ago," Corporal Jay Garrett returned Wade's grin. "You're missin' out, man, stuck in them books of yours."

Wade chuckled, "Like I told ya back on Paris, Jay, I ain't one for shootin' somethin' I can't eat." Garrett and Harper had been in the same recruit class during training.

"Blow up anything interesting this week?" Garrett asked, referring to the _last_ time he'd been back in the US and had met up with his buddy. "'Cause, man, I can't think of nothin' else what'd have you visitin' NCIS."

Wade chuckled, "Well, to tell the truth an' shame the devil, I work here now."

"No shit?"

"None whatsoever," Wade replied. "Got a job down in the forensics lab. How 'bout you, you shoot any DIs in the ass lately?"

Garrett rolled his eyes, "Are you _never_ gonna let me live that down? Wasn't my fault the damn bullet ricocheted the way it did."

"Nope," Wade said, glancing at his watch. "Hey, how about you an' me meet up on Friday? Head over to Gallegos for some tequila an' a plate of stuffed nachos an' catch up?"

Jay nodded, "Sure thing, Harper. _Just_ Friday, though – gotta not be hungover Monday."

"Why? What's on Monday?"

It was Jay's turn to grin. "I'll _finally _outrank you."

Wade whistled, "So the Corps decided to make you a Sergeant, huh? That why you're back in town?"

Jay nodded, "Yeah. Gonna be schleppin' an' haulin' for the Staff Sergeant's ROTC crew up at Waverly next year or so."

"Damn, Jay – you gonna be okay with all them pretty coeds bouncin' around?"

Jay's grin brightened, "You know it – perk of the job. Figure a little quiet lookin' ain't gonna be too much to ask for after spendin' the last six months bein' _shot _at."

"So, see ya Friday. I really gotta get goin' else I'm _really _gonna be late."

"Catch ya later, Harper!" Jay waved to his friend as Wade disappeared into the NCIS building.

* * *

Wade didn't have long to wait before his new boss showed up. A light voice in the back of his head commenced grumbling in disappointment that she was wearing pants rather than her pretty little skirt from the interview, but even the disappointed voice had to admit that the pants – chains and straps aside – really did emphasize how nice an ass she had. Wade gave himself a mental smack, _Quit leering at the boss, Harper. _

"Afternoon, Miss Abby," Wade greeted her, making _damn sure_ she didn't catch him checking her out. _Though, I'm pretty certain she wouldn't mind none_. He gave himself another mental smack. _Damn it, Harper. Focus._

Unknown to him, Wade was treated to a tour very similar to the one Sam had received that morning, only it seemed to be on 'fast forward'. He could barely squeeze in monosyllable responses to her ongoing babble. With his area of study being what it was, Wade – unlike Sam – had been prepared for the onslaught of ink when they stopped by HR for his ID card. He didn't mind, though, he had come prepared – while waiting for the laminated ID to print, he grabbed a handful of paper towels off the roll on the table next to the ink-roller and retrieved a yellow bottle of Ronsonol from his backpack. The ink was cleanly wiped away after only a few moments. Abby had disappeared to the bathroom for the time, and so had missed it. She didn't seem to notice the lack of ink when she returned.

As Abby led the way back through the maze of corridors to the main level – where, as they passed, Wade caught sight of an irate older man smacking a younger one on the back of his head, while another man (probably only a year or two older than himself) smirked behind them – Abby paused to take a breath.

It was the opening Wade needed, "Miss Abby – you don't gotta gimme the full tour today, not if you've got stuff runnin' down in your lab. Just get us down there, an' then we can deal with whatever you got. If I get lost tomorrow, hell, I _know_ how to ask for directions."

Abby let out a relieved sigh, then said, "Well, come on then!" and took of at an even faster clip towards a nearly-hidden elevator. Wade lagged a heartbeat behind, admiring the view.

Unnoticed by the new lab tech, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs noticed where the tech's eyes were glued and glared at his retreating back. _When this case wraps up_, he thought, barking an order in McGee's direction, _looks like I'm gonna be having a little chat with the new guy._

* * *

When he laid eyes on Abby's domain, Wade fell – not literally, mind – but he fell, nonetheless, hard, fast, and totally. Stepping in to her lab was like plunging from a burning boat into the cool waters of a Caribbean sunset; the frenetic humming of the rest of the building faded away, the beelike buzz being replaced with a strong, purposeful _thump, thump, thump_. Though, to be fair, that could have just been his own pulse he was hearing, or the steady beat from the stereo that was playing one of Rob Zombie's songs. But Wade didn't think so.

It wasn't just that this appeared to be the only room he'd seen thus far in the whole of NCIS HQ that _wasn't _painted an appalling shade of orange, or the arched windows high up on the wall, or the slightly cooler temperature from being partially underground or even the mellow light refracted through and off of an assortment of multi-hued jars and bottles… Even the smell was different – out in the hall, it smelled vaguely of recycled air and industrial cleansers, but in Abby's World… Wade took a deep breath. There were the innumerable scents of chemicals native to any lab, sure, but overlaying all that was a light patina of Abby's homemade perfume and something… Well, Wade didn't know what it was, but he found that he could happily spend his life trying to find out.

Sam watched as Abby headed first to her computer and then to her 'Major MassSpec', leaving the guy standing in the doorway blinking at the entirety of the lab. Sam had to smile a little at his awestruck expression.

After checking the tests she'd left running when the security personnel manning the desk had called to let her know of Wade's arrival, Abby spun on her heel and finally noticed her other new assistant's expression. "Wade?"

"I think I'm in love," he mumbled, looking past Abby to the ballistics room sandwiched between the lab proper and Abby's office.

Sam chuckled quietly as Abby tugged Wade into the ballistics room. _At least he looks healthier today,_ she thought before going back to reading the 'Abby's Lab for Dummies' guidebook she'd been handed.

In the oddly cheerful ballistics room – complete with a giant poster of a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 being fired – Abby handed Wade a woodprint cardboard filing box. Instinctively, Wade retrieved the ballpoint clipped to the collar of his t-shirt (a plain dark blue, overlaid with a short-sleeved white-and-pale-blue striped buttondown) and scrawled his signature, the date, and the time before Abby could say anything.

"That's right, you said you'd interned with a forensics lab before," Abby changed what she was going to say at the last moment.

Wade blinked and looked up, "I did?"

Abby nodded, "Yeah. During your interview. You interned at Metro for a year, right?"

It was Wade's turn to nod. "Yeah, but I don't remember tellin' ya. To be honest, I don't really remember the interview – just like I don't remember takin' the SATs in high school or any of the other times I've had to sit a major test. Hell, three-quarters of my time at Paris Island's nothin' but a big blur." He laughed at himself. "I don't mind much. Ain't like I can change who I am, after all."

Abby liked Wade's laugh. It was a full-bodied rumbling sound that tingled through her stomach and sent pleasant zings up her spine. "Well said," she replied, chuckling a little herself. "Anyway," she tore her eyes from Wade's light blue ones and opened the box. "I wanted to see if you could match this slug," she held up a nearly-pristine nine-millimeter bullet in a plastic jar, "with either one of these." The other two were likewise nine-millimeter bullets, but one was nearly flattened and the other looked like Wade usually felt after a weekend hanging out with Garrett.

Wade let out a low whistle. "Damn, but they're a mess. Pulled from a body?"

Abby nodded.

"Bone'll do that," Wade commented with the nonchalance of someone commenting on the weather the week prior in Bangladesh.

A beeping noise, barely audible over the sound of _Thunderkiss '65_, kept her from replying. She hurried out of the room and Wade let his eyes wander over her delightful backside one more time before focusing on the task she'd given him.

It was a _very_ good thing he didn't know it was a test – he figured they were evidence from a cold case.

His first step was to read the report included in the file. Once he'd familiarized himself with the case, he read through the autopsy report and Abby's findings.

_Okay, Harper_, he returned the file-folders to the evidence box and retrieved the bullets Abby asked him to test. _So, to summarize, this one smashed through a rib and this one lodged against a shoulder blade. Abby's findings were inconclusive. One belongs to the Sig that fired the pristine shot pulled from the dead guy's leg and the odd man out came from the bad guy. _The theme from _Mission: Impossible_ began to play in his head. He smirked. _Your mission,_ his inner voice took the tone of the prerecorded voices on the tapes in the movie, _should you choose to accept it, is to match the pristine shot with one or the other of the slugs from the dead guy's trunk._

He began by repeating the tests Abby had first run roughly three years earlier.

One by one, they popped up as 'inconclusive'.

Wade was still staring at the flattened bullet from the shoulder blade, comparing it with the pristine bullet from the leg, when he realized he was being stared at. He pulled himself away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. He also snuck a glance at his watch and did a double-take at the time. _2330? How the hell did it get so late?_

"It must be all geeks," an unfamiliar voice said.

Wade turned around and saw the youngish man he'd spotted getting whacked in the head during Abby's whirlwind 'tour' earlier. "What's all geeks?"

"That focused thing you all do. Abby gets that way, so does McGee. I noticed it with that new girl, Sam, earlier today, too."

Wade blinked, "What new girl?"

"About yay-tall," the agent – Wade could see his badge clipped to his belt, under the hem of a goldtone-and-cream patterned dress shirt – held his hand about midway up his chest. "Blue hair?"

Thinking of Abby's less-than-conservative style of clothes, the blue hair didn't seem all that shocking. Wade shrugged, "Sorry, man, don't think I met her. But I didn't get here 'til 1430." He climbed off of the stool he'd been perched on. "You here for something specific, Agent…?"

"DiNozzo," Tony replied. "Tony DiNozzo."

"Wade Harper," Wade replied offering the agent his hand. "And I'm not really a geek."

"Oh?" Tony quirked an eyebrow at him. "Then what would you call yourself?"

Wade grinned, "I'm a gun enthusiast, of course. Just got a small science-bent to it, is all." After they shook hands, Wade said, "You didn't answer my question, though. Just what's got you down here – of all places – at 2330?"

"Just needed a break is all. Normally, Abby's good for a laugh, but looks like she went home already. How come _you're_ still here?"

Wade's crooked grin brightened, "Hell, man – I ain't got nothin' better to be done right about now. Where else should I be?"

Tony had to admit that the new tech had a point. "So whacha working on?" he asked.

"Coupla bullets Miss Abby wanted me to see if I could match. So far, I ain't havin' much luck. Would go a li'l easier if I had a SEM or even just a hi-def 3DI."

"A what or a what?"

"Scanning electron microscope or a high-definition three-dimensional imaging system. Hell, I'd give my left nut for a gas chromatograph that can scan down to the micron-level. Any one of the three would do." Tony blinked at Wade. The guy may _look_ like a Marine, might _sound_ like a hick, and _dress_ like a college kid, but he _talked_ like a geek. Wade saw Tony's eyes glaze over at the word 'electron'. Wade sighed. "This would be so much easier if Professor Jorgeson liked me."

"Who's that?"

"Head of the science department at GW."

"Why wouldn't he like you? I sorta thought geeks stuck together."

"Told you already, I ain't a geek. But Jorgeson…well, I sorta blew up his chem lab last summer – I maintain it weren't my fault, though. He shoulda had the phosphorus clearly labeled as such in the supply closet." Wade got a slightly wistful expression on his face, "Was a damn spectacular sight, though." After a moment, the wistfulness faded and Wade shrugged. "Ah, hell – don't matter none. Jorgeson, he's gone on vacation 'til August anyhow."

Tony's attention wandered from Wade to the computer screen displaying side-by-side images of the two bullets Wade had been comparing. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he knew they didn't pertain to the current case – the body this time had been strangled, not shot. "What case is this for?"

"Uh, something about an agent-involved shooting from three years ago or so. Undercover cop got shot."

_The Archer case_, Tony realized. He stepped up a little closer to the images on the screen. "So, if you had access to those things you mentioned…could you match the bullets?"

Wade nodded. "No problem. Any one of the three would do the trick – if I had my pick, though, I'd go for the chromatograph. It'd be able to match whether or not the bullets were cast in the same batch."

An idea flickered into Tony's head. He smirked and faced Wade. "You said GW's got one, right?" Wade nodded again. "And that prof is out for the foreseeable future?"

Wade saw where Tony was going. "You can pick a lock?"

Tony waggled his eyebrows, "It's in the job description."

* * *

Wade let out a low whistle on seeing DiNozzo's car. It was low, sleek, and a bright, metallic-flake blue. "She sure is _purty_, ain't she?" 'She' was a 1971 Chevrolet Camaro.

Tony grinned and unlocked the driver's door. He reached across to unlock the passenger side and waited for Wade to get in. "That she is. Not nearly so much as my old 'Vette, and not quite as much fun as the ragtop 'Stang, but she's definitely got a certain…_appeal_." He punctuated his comment by starting the engine.

Wade's crooked grin morphed into a childlike smile, making him seem to be about sixteen as the motor roared to life. It was okay, though – the grin on Tony's face would have had an observer, had there been any, wonder if maybe the 'kid' behind the wheel even had a learner's permit.

Considering it was coming up on midnight on a Monday, Tony drove a little more recklessly than he usually did, and they made good time to the GW campus. They even found a parking spot within a reasonable walking distance of the science building. Wade led them to a side-entrance and gestured to the door, "Show's all yours, man."

"Why this door?" Tony's curiosity got the better of him as he got out his lockpicks and set to work under the steady beam from Wade's mini-Maglight.

"Because I know they ain't finished rewiring the alarm system from last summer's accident just yet, an' it was either this door or the window just above. An' I dunno 'bout you, but I really ain't up for shimmying up a drainpipe tonight."

Tony had to admit the kid had a point. He unlocked the door a few moments later.

As they made their way deep into the building, Tony asked, "What about security? Won't they wonder why you're here?"

Wade shrugged, "They might, but _you're_ a freakin' _Fed_, for cryin' out loud, and I'm a simple grad student workin' on my thesis. They ain't gonna go interruptin' Jorgeson's cruise for the likes of us. Trust me."

As it turned out, Tony needn't have worried. No one showed up to challenge their arrival during the twenty minutes it took for Wade to run the samples. He didn't take the time to analyze the results – he merely printed them and tucked them into his backpack.

The pair were back at NCIS HQ less than an hour later. Tony followed Wade back to Abby's lab and hovered over his shoulder as Wade read through the results from the scan. "Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Wade replied.

"Which bullet killed the cop?"

Wade held up the little evidence jar, "This one. Said as much in the autopsy report."

Tony rolled his eyes, "Smartass."

"Takes one to know one." Yeah, they'd gotten to know one another a little during their minor adventure.

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah," Wade chuckled. "Sorry, man – couldn't resist. According to the scan, there's a better than ninety-eight percent chance that the kill-shot was cast from the same batch of lead as the bullet that the ME pulled from the dead guy's leg."

Tony winced. "Damn. McGee's really not going to like this."

"That was the agent involved?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah."

"Know him well?"

Tony nodded again. "He's one of my team. Was a mess right after it happened, too."

Wade made a _tsk_ noise – oddly, it reminded Tony of the housekeeper he barely remembered from when he was six – and sat the printouts on the backlit keyboard to Abby's main computer. "Well, the way I see it, ya got two choices. You can either let him know and then take him out for a round or six of tequila shooters, or you can _not_ tell him and leave him to wonder about it 'til the trumpets sound. Personally, if I was in his shoes, I'd wanna know."

After a silent moment of thought, Tony nodded a little. "Yeah," he agreed. "Me, too."

* * *

Tim pried an eye open and poked his brain, trying to get enough neurons on board to identify the thumping noise that had woke him.

_Oh, it's the door._ Having identified the noise, his eye slipped closed again. _Wait a second. Someone's at the door._ Both eyes snapped open this time and he pushed himself into a sitting position. His alarm clock read quarter-past two in the morning. The last time someone had been pounding at his door at this o'clock of the night, it had been his little sister, covered in blood and strung out on GHB – so it was completely understandable that he paused long enough to grab his gun from its place in his desk drawer on his way past.

He peered through the peep-hole and sighed. It was only Tony. He cracked the door open and glared at his partner. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Lemme in, Tim," Tony said.

The lack of a McNickname was enough to make Tim realize that Tony was in a rare serious mood. Tim silently opened the door and flicked on a light. To his surprise, Tony hadn't come alone. One of Abby's new assistants was with him. Harper looked a little uncomfortable as he followed Tony into Tim's living room. "Beggin' your pardon at the early hour," Harper said, "but to be fair, was his idea," he nodded to Tony, "that this couldn't wait 'til mornin'."

Curious, and slightly irritated at missing out on sleep, Tim rubbed a hand across his eyes and returned his gun to his desk. "What couldn't wait until morning?"

Without preamble, Tony explained. "Abby had Wade working on the bullets from the Archer case."

A flash of memories flickered through Tim's brain. _'Freeze, federal agent!'…a flash of gunfire…'I killed a cop, boss.'…'Did somebody break a mirror?'…the dirty grey of Metro's interrogation room, the detective who likely only had a nodding acquaintance with a toothbrush…'I'm sorry, Tim, but the bullets were just too damaged.'…'It matters, Abby.'_

Out loud, all Tim could really say was, "And?"

Tony met Wade's eyes and made a little jerking motion towards Tim's desk chair. Wade nodded and pulled it out from its cubby, spinning it around so that it was positioned just behind Tim. Tony then pushed an unresisting Tim into it. "And…Wade?"

"I ran them through the chromatograph at GW," he said, digging the printouts out of his backpack. He knew from conversation with Tony earlier that night that Tim could read the results just as easily as he could. He handed them to the agent. "The slug from the guy's leg matched what the ME concluded was the kill-shot."

Tim read through the printouts, scanning over percentages of lead versus the respective quantities of various impurities. He was silent long enough that Tony was beginning to wonder if his partner had forgotten they were there. "Tim?"

McGee took a breath and handed the papers back to Wade. "I'm okay," he said, meeting Tony's gaze. Oddly, it was true. The printouts merely confirmed what he'd already _known_ ever since that night in the alley. Tim shifted his gaze to Wade. "Thank you," he said. "I… It's better than the not-knowing."

"Thought it might be," Wade acknowledged. He was about to ask if Tim was sure that he'd be okay when he realized that, yeah, he'd be fine. Tony would make sure of it. Tony had that same concerned-fraternal air around him that Garrett had when he'd found out his baby sister's fiancé had been killed in a car accident two years prior. "I'll leave y'all to it, then. Might be a plan to get _some_ sleep tonight – even though I ain't got class tomorrow, can't sleep in like I used to do. Don't think Miss Abby'd be too happy if I was late." He headed for the door and paused with it halfway open. "Hey, me an' a buddy of mine were plannin' on goin' for drinks this Friday. Either of you two don't got nothin' better planned that night, you're welcome to join in. Gallegos, seven o'clock. First round's on me."

To Tony's surprise, Tim smiled somewhat bitterly and spoke before he could. "Yeah, nothing else comes up, and I'll be there."

As the door closed behind Wade, Tony cast a questioning look at his partner. "What's that about?"

"What's _what_ about, Tony?"

"You hardly _ever_ go to the bar."

Tim let out a little chuckle, "You didn't see him following Abby to the elevator this afternoon. Someone's gotta clue him in on Rule Twelve."

Realizing that Tim really _was_ going to be okay, Tony let himself be sidetracked. "Wade and Abby, huh?" He shook his head. "Nah – I just don't see it."

"You didn't see _me_ and Abby, either, so I hardly think you're the best judge on this."

Tony had to admit that Probie had a point. He idly wondered if Gibbs had noticed Wade's attraction, too. "Hmm…"

"What?"

"Just wondering if we'll get to watch when Gibbs goes all dad-like on Wade."

Tim laughed outright, "Hope so." He stretched and something popped loudly from between his shoulder blades. "Hey, how did you find out about Wade's results?"

Tony grinned and launched into a wildly-exaggerated version of how he'd helped Wade break into the science building for the tests.

* * *

**A/N2:** I have no idea if George Washington University has a _science _department, let alone a gas chromatograph capable of analyzing samples to the micron, so just go with me on this one, folks. And though I do research, I also have no idea how long a GC takes to analyze a sample, so I guessed. If it ain't right, shoot me a line and I'll fix it.

Oh, and as S5 isn't my favorite, was there ever any mention made of what car Tony got after his sweet little Mustang got bombed? I don't recall if it was ever mentioned, so if my guess is totally off the mark, lemme know and I'll fix it.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Yeah, it's not as long as the last few chapters, but I got a tattoo two weeks ago, promoted a week ago, and it's my birthday today. Life's _good_, so I thought I'd share the joy. Happy reading!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Five_

Tuesday dawned grey and rainy, with sporadic flashes of indecisive lightning and rumbles of halfhearted thunder. Understandably, once Sam's brain was on-board for the day, the first thing she did was call Becky while Quin got breakfast ready.

"Morning," Becky answered the phone and Sam had to grin as Hope yelled 'Tell mama hi for me!' in the background.

"You sound far too happy for six in the morning," Sam replied.

Becky snorted, "One of these days, you're gonna have to tell me just how it is that you and Hope can both tell who's calling without looking at the caller ID."

"It's a gift, sweetheart," Sam replied, her voice indicating that she'd been over this before.

"Whatever. Whacha need?"

"It raining up there, too?"

"Yeah, a bit," Becky replied. "We'll need to come up sometime soon with a repair guy, though. There's a leak right over the kitchen sink."

Sam huffed out an exasperatedly amused huff, "Well, if the roof's gotta leak, at least it picked a decent place."

"Any particular reason you called?"

"Nah. Just…well…"

Becky chuckled, "Quit worrying, Sam. Aside from the leak, we're _fine_. Well, I think Hope's about to strangle Kat, and Phoenix is going to help – I don't know what you said to her the other day, but whatever it was she's turned into a mini…well, a mini-_you_."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" annoyance filtered into her voice and Quin shot her a questioning glance as he moved the pot of oatmeal from the stove and scooped out two bowls.

"Just that she's…well, _hovering_. Fable and Grace are in seventh heaven with all the extra attention, but…"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, Kat's not one to do things by halves, huh?"

"You got that right. Anyway, quit your fretting –"

"I'm not fretting!"

"You are so. We're _fine_. We'll be _fine_. You and that brother of mine enjoy your week." Becky hung up before Sam could protest.

Quin sat a bowl of oatmeal, topped with strawberries and honey, in front of Sam and slid into his usual chair at the breakfast table with his own breakfast. "And…?" he prompted.

"The cabin's roof needs fixed and Kat's about to drive Hope and Phoenix to fratricide. Other than that, they're – to quote your sister – 'fine'."

Quin speared a banana slice with his fork – yes, he ate oatmeal with a fork, ice cream, too, for that matter – and chuckled. "Hell, Sammy, I coulda told you that."

* * *

Forty miles to the southeast, a far more decisive clap of thunder startled Wade out of dreamland. "Damn it all to hell an' back," he grumbled, realizing it was just the weather. He flopped back onto his pillow and sighed at the ceiling before glancing at his alarm clock and repeating the curse. It was already seven-thirty. He only had half an hour to get to work.

Moving far faster than most people could have guessed, Wade skipped his morning shower and was dressed in under two minutes. He grabbed his backpack and his weatherproof windbreaker as he sped out the door to his apartment, barely remembering to lock the door behind him as he frantically tried to recall the last time he'd loaded his SmarTrip card.

Despite the weather, luck was with him, and he made it to his local subway stop just as the train he needed was pulling in. His card let him through and he boarded, slightly damp and out-of-breath, but grinning nonetheless. _S'long as we don't get delayed any, I should just about make it on time._

At the Union Station stop, as was usual, particularly for a rainy day, far more people tried to crowd onto the train than was advisable. A harried-looking young mother, jabbering on a cell phone and trying to herd two children who likely weren't old enough to be in kindergarten onto the train stumbled over an old man's cane and collided with a tallish brunette man of about thirty. The man scowled at her as he dropped his briefcase and it popped open, spilling papers every which way.

Wade being who he was (not to mention only a couple of feet away), reached out with a steadying hand to make sure the blonde woman was okay before crouching down and giving the man a hand with gathering his papers. "Helluva mornin', huh?" he said, handing the stack he'd collected back to the man.

The brunette took the papers, grimaced at the clear, muddy bootprint on the top sheet and sighed before tossing the lot back into his case. "You can say that again. I hate it when it rains, always makes me miss my morning run."

"I hear that," Wade replied. "Hate the freakin' subway, but my main ride's a motorcycle, an' though I ain't got nothin' against ridin' in the rain, I don't wanna hafta work soakin' wet when I get there."

"Where's work?"

"Down at the Naval Yard," Wade replied with a broad grin, wondering if his new boss was going to be dressed to showcase her impressive backside or her shapely legs today. "Got a spot doin' labwork in their forensics department."

Something odd flashed across the man's face – if Wade had to guess, he would have said it was anger, but not entirely – nearly too fast to see. "That so?"

Wade nodded, pushing the flicker of unease he'd experienced at the guy's strobe light-quick emotion down. "Yeah. Coulda knocked me over with a feather when they lemme know I got the job. Thought for sure I screwed the pooch on the interview last Friday, but… Well, here I am." He smiled brightly. "Name's Wade, by the by. Wade Harper."

The man's eyes narrowed a little, but didn't get a chance to reply as the train pulled to a stop at Judiciary Square and the press of folk trying to both enter and exit the car separated them. When the crush of people finally settled some and Wade didn't see the man anywhere nearby, he figured that he'd probably gotten off at the Square and pushed the encounter from his mind as he went back to debating the pros and cons of his new boss in a skirt versus his new boss in those fantastically tight pants.

By the time he switched over to the train that would deposit him at the Naval Yard, he'd all but forgotten about the man and his briefcase.

* * *

As the radio played the Grateful Dead's _Casey Jones_, Sam sung along. Loudly. And _way_ off-key. She didn't care, though. She knew she couldn't sing, even though she enjoyed doing so – to preserve others' delicate sensibilities, however, she did try to keep her singing restricted to places and times no one else could hear. Hence, whenever she was in the car by herself, she sang.

Weaving deftly through the heavy traffic of total morons using the Southeast Freeway that morning, she pulled onto the off-ramp and hung a right onto 8th Street SE. She'd just gone through the guard-gate when she spotted a somewhat familiar figure double-timing it from the subway station. Sam pulled up beside him and tapped her horn. _Yeah,_ she thought as the progressively-wetter man spun around to jog backwards for a few paces, _that'd be our other tech._ She hit the radio's power button and reached across the empty passenger seat to roll the window down a crack. "Wade!"

"Who's askin'?" he hollered back.

"Sam!" she replied. "Abby's other tech. Come on, kiddo, I'll give you a ride to work."

Wade's perpetual grin brightened and he changed his backwards jog into a forwards sprint without breaking his stride – a maneuver that made Sam jealous; if _she'd_ tried that same thing, she would've wound up flat on her ass. In a puddle, no less. A _deep_ one.

He climbed into the Jeep and settled his backpack between his feet. "Thanks," he said as Sam got the car moving forwards again.

Sam shrugged. "Not a problem, kiddo. Don't think we were ever formally introduced yesterday, but I'm Sam Irving. Documents specialist when I'm not going to be the general gopher-girl."

"Wade Harper," he replied. "Ballistics, when not doin' likewise."

Sam smiled at his accent. "So, Tex… Whacha think of our boss?"

As Wade's grin morphed into a slightly sillier version of itself, Sam's own smile slipped smirkwards. "She's…" he trailed off as a mess of adjectives flashed through his brain. _Pretty. Cute. Sharp as a tack. Got great legs and an awesome ass. _He finally settled on, "She seems like she's gonna be fun to work for."

Sam nodded, her knowing little smirk not slipping at all. "Agreed. Might have to kill her stereo, though. I'm not a real big fan of death metal."

"Country girl?" Wade asked, frowning a little.

Sam snorted. "_Hell no._" She nodded to the radio. "Hit power."

The radio turned on halfway through Lynyrd Skynyrd's _The Ballad of Curtis Lowe_. Before more than three notes had played, Sam was singing along. Three beats later, and valiantly ignoring Sam's blatant tone-deafness, Wade was singing along, too.

The song came to an end as Sam parked her Jeep in the parking garage adjacent to NCIS HQ. Laughing, Wade and Sam climbed out of the car and headed for the elevator. Halfway there, Wade started whistling a familiar tune. Sam proved that though she couldn't sing, she _could_ keep a beat and took to 'playing' the drums as the pair started in on an a cappella version of Boston's _Don't Look Back_.

By the time they reached the lab, they'd managed to transition over to Kansas' _The Closet Chronicles_ and both were pretty sure they'd be able to manage working together without killing one another.

When they walked into the lab, however they stopped short, all singing halted in mid-word. Were it not for the spiderweb tattoo just barely visible on her neck, neither Sam nor Wade would have recognized their boss. She was wearing a conservative powder-blue suit and _pumps_. The expression on her face was enough to make both of her assistants realize she was very _not pleased_ with the situation.

"I have court in an hour," she explained, "and no one bothered telling me they'd moved up the date until last night, so you two will be on your own until noon or so. I already ran all the trace that Gibbs brought in yesterday, the report's on my desk, but when you explain it to him – unless he sends Tim down – don't delve too much into the science-stuff, he'll just get all growly and impatient, and make sure any Caf-pows that show up get put in the fridge until I get back, and if anything major comes up before I get back, Tim should be able to lend a hand 'cause neither of you've been checked-out on my babies yet and I don't want them getting all upset that someone was pressing their buttons without a proper introduction and I _really_ have to go if I'm going to get there in time!"

Sam and Wade stepped to either side of the doorway as Hurricane Abby whirled out. In the silence which followed in her wake, the two new-hires blinked at each other. After a minute or so, Sam broke the silence. "You got any _real_ music in that pack of yours, Tex?"

Wade shrugged, "Reckon so. You find the CD player?"

"Saw it yesterday, in the office, catty-whumpus on the filing cabinet behind the desk."

A few moments later, _Lodi_ by CCR began playing.

* * *

As the elevator door opened to reveal the short hallway leading to Abby's lab, Gibbs was greeted with something that he'd never before experienced. There was music coming from the lab. Sure, at first glance, it wasn't an odd occurrence, but it was _actual music_ and not the noise usually favored by the goth, nor was it the jazz she reserved for deaths, or her one foray into classical. This was music Gibbs actually _knew the words to_ and for a heartbeat he was a senior in high school once again, listening to a battery-powered transistor out in the garage and tinkering with the junker he'd sunk an entire summer's pay into buying.

He shook off the flash of memory and let his curiosity get the better of him as he strolled into the lab. He lingered in the doorway, merely observing for a few minutes.

Harper was kicked back in a chair rolled in from the office, his feet up on the stainless evidence table and reading Abby's handwritten 'for Dummies' guide while the other tech was peering at something through Abby's comparison microscope. "I don't know, Sam," Harper was saying, "I prefer _The Wall_."

Sam made a _tsk_ noise through her teeth, "Bite your tongue, Tex. Ain't no Pink Floyd album that can beat _Meddle_, though _Dark Side of the Moon_ comes damn close."

"But the whole message of _The Wall_ – how cutting yourself off from everyone to avoid gettin' hurt's generally a bad plan – is what makes it such a great album," Wade argued his point.

"True, for a concept-album, it's good, but you seem to be forgetting about Queensrÿche's _Empire_. That one's probably the single greatest concept-album in existence."

"Thought we agreed to limit ourselves to music prior to 1980?"

Sam sighed, "_Fine_. Point to you. But still, I'm right. Right?"

Wade chuckled, "You keep tellin' yourself that, Sam."

Gibbs cleared his throat, but neither of the techs seemed to notice. Sam spun around on the lab stool and glared lightly at her coworker. "Hey, I conceded the point – least you could do is admit I'm right about _Empire_."

"What about _Tommy_?"

Sam's right eyebrow arched high over her glasses. "That was a rock-opera, not a concept-album, so it doesn't count. Try again, Tex." She waggled her finger at him as though chastising a small child to punctuate her point.

Gibbs cleared his throat again, hoping he wouldn't have to start head-slapping the newbies on their second day – they weren't his agents, after all, so it wasn't at all like DiNozzo's record-setting first day.

Without missing a beat, Sam looked over and said, "A little honey and lemon in a cup of tea'll clear that cough right up, you know," before returning her gaze to Harper. "Well?"

Harper, finally realizing that someone else was there, scrambled to his feet, "Later, Sam. Let's see what our visitor needs, first, alright?"

"Fine," Sam huffed.

Wade gestured to himself, "Wade Harper," and Sam, "and Sam Irving at your service. What can we do ya for?"

"Where's Abby?" was Gibbs' first question.

"Court," came the in-stereo reply.

"She happen to leave the results of the tests she did yesterday?"

Wade nodded, "That she did. Take it you're Agent Gibbs?" Gibbs nodded and Wade grabbed the file off the corner of the table. He'd read through the results earlier, but scanned through them again to make sure he didn't miss anything important. "Okay, so to summarize – Petty Officer Dixon had nearly-lethal levels of GHB in his system, a BAC of one-point-three, and the fibers the ME removed from the ligature on his neck were pink silk, most likely from a scarf sold last winter at any Macys in the nation."

"Seriously?" Sam asked. Wade nodded and handed her the file. "Well, then it's probably his ex you're after," she directed her comment at the agent while puzzling out the report she was looking at – it wasn't very familiar to her, but was similar enough to other documents she'd dealt with in the past that it wasn't too hard to figure out.

"What makes you say that?" Wade asked, moving to read over Sam's shoulder (not hard to do, as Sam was only a couple of inches over five feet tall and Wade was pushing six-foot-four).

"Because, unless it's just totally random, it's _always_ the ex. Don't you watch TV?"

As the two techs devolved into another playful argument, Gibbs withdrew from the lab now that he'd gotten the info he needed. _Pretty sure Abby's going to have her hands full with those two. And that reminds me, I still need to have that chat with Harper._

* * *

**A/N2:** For those who are unaware, a SmarTrip card is the DC subway's electronic pass (it can also be used for other public transportation systems in the area). How do I know this, despite never having been to DC? I do customer service for a company that oversees what are known as 'commuter benefits' – I know the names of the public transit passes for just about every major city in the US (for example, the craptastic card for the Seattle area is known as the Orca, and the one for Chicago, predictably, is the Chicago Card Plus, while the one for San Francisco is in the process of changing from Translink to the Clipper Card, and Boston's is the Charlie Card – and yes, all the 'CC' cards are _really_ starting to piss me off because we can't abbreviate them any more). And I couldn't find a map that showed me where the real-world version of the Navy Yard's subway stop is in relation to NCIS HQ, so I plunked it where _I_ wanted it – and in this instance, I don't plan on fixing it – just consider it poetic license on my part if you know better and ignore the story-vs.-RL discrepancy.

Regional vocab lesson – 'catty-whumpus' is rural Midwestern slang for 'kitty-corner' or 'on a diagonal'.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Happy Independence Day to all my fellow USers! And a belated Happy Canada Day to our neighbors to the north (did y'all know that Canada Day is the same day as my birthday?). Happy reading!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Six_

Wednesday morning found Sam parking the Jeep in what she was rapidly coming to think of as 'her' space. As it was barely half-past five, most of the garage was echoingly empty – Quin had needed to be at work obscenely early to oversee a couple of tests on the equipment he was helping to develop, and with no one else at home, Sam didn't have anything better to be doing. As she neared the elevator that would take her to the building's lobby, she had to slow down. In the orange-tinted grey light of predawn, the two parking spaces closest to the elevator stood out – and not just because they were some of the very few that had cars in them.

In a sea of mid-sized sedans and smaller econo-boxes, of 'flex-fuel' SUVs and the occasional minivan, right in front of her were two _real_ cars. Both were 1971 models, unless she missed her guess, one a Chevrolet, the other a Dodge. The Camaro was done up an elegant metallic-flake blue while the Challenger was a more eye-catching yellow complete with black racing stripe. Unapologetically built for speed and power, Sam could almost hear the rumble of their engines as they sat, quiescent, in their parking slips.

"Mmm," she ran a fingertip along the right rear fender of the Challenger. Memories of Uncle Jack teaching her how to drive in a '72 cherry-red Challenger invaded her mind for a time. "_Someone's_ got taste."

"That would be a matter of opinion, my dear," a cultured voice interrupted her musings.

"Nah," Sam replied, looking up at the source of the voice. "It's a matter of _fact_." The source of the voice was an elderly gentleman wearing a hat of the style that Sam thought of as a 'fedora', even though it wasn't technically accurate, and a lightweight summer suit, complete with bow-tie. "Heyla," she held out her hand in greeting. "Don't think we've met yet. I'm Sam Irving."

"Ah, yes," the gentleman moved his satchel to his left hand and accepted Sam's greeting. "Our new documents specialist. Dr. Donald Mallard, at your service – but, please, call me 'Ducky'; everyone does."

"Well that won't do – it's never good to be just like everyone else," Sam replied.

Ducky let out a lighthearted chuckle, his eyes landing on Sam's hair, "Then what would you suggest, my dear?"

Sam cocked her head to the side and thought for a moment. "Well…you don't look like a 'Donnie' – besides, I got a cousin that goes by that name and there's no sense in confusing myself."

Ducky nodded, "Quite right."

"Hmm," Sam's eyebrows shot up for a heartbeat. "You know, I don't know why, but I look at you and the thing that springs to mind – regardless of the lack of a moustache – is page three-ninety-eight of my high school history text. It was a bio page for Doc Holliday…" Sam got an odd little smile on her face. "Yeah – dunno quite why, but I could see you wearing a duster, outriding with a crew of trailhands in Arizona or New Mexico… Yeah. So, I think I'll call you 'Doc', if you don't mind."

"No, my dear, I don't mind. It is indeed a moniker I've gone by in times past, but I must admit that it was for far more mundane reasons than you've given."

It was Sam's turn to chuckle. "Like I said, Doc, it's not good to be just like everyone else."

"Indeed not," Ducky replied. "Would you care to join me in a spot of tea this morning?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam said. "Just lead the way."

Ducky followed her advice and the pair entered the elevator. "You remind me of a young lady I knew in my youth…"

* * *

Wade's smile seemed to be perpetual ever since landing the job with NCIS, but as he pulled his motorcycle into the parking garage – now that someone'd actually taken the time to let him know that's where employees were _supposed _to park – it was brighter than usual. He parked next to what he knew was Sam's Jeep and climbed off. He hung his helmet on the handlebars and headed for the elevator. _Wonder what Miss Abby'll be wearing today? _He hit the button for the lobby and mused on the fabulous little black dress all in layers of tulle and lace from when she'd gotten back from court the day before.

The elevator slowed to a stop and he headed for the one that would take him up to the squad room and the final elevator that would take him to the lab, stopping briefly to go through security. _Would I prefer pants or a skirt? Well, that depends. Are her legs her best feature? Or is it her ass? Oh, come on Harper – least you could do is be honest with yourself. Her best feature, hands down, are those beautiful green eyes of hers. But as to the ass-or-legs debate… I suppose it depends on if she's wearing something with a heel. That was one thing that polyester nightmare from yesterday morning had going for it – she wore heels with it. Made what you could see of her legs look so much better, it almost made up for the lack of ass it presented._ The elevator doors opened onto the squad room level and Wade stepped off, still lost in thought. He was aware enough to nod a greeting to Tony as he passed the agent's desk, but failed to notice he was being followed by another agent until after he'd already stepped into the elevator to the more secure areas of the building.

He hit the button for the level containing the lab and stepped aside to allow Agent Gibbs to make his own selection from the panel. To his surprise, the agent merely glanced at the panel and waited for the doors to close.

About five seconds later, Gibbs reached over and flicked the emergency stop button. The elevator shuddered to an immediate stop and the normal lights flickered out to leave them in the blue glow from the emergency lighting panel. "Agent Gibbs?" Wade asked, resettling his backpack on his shoulder. Gibbs merely stared at Wade, and Harper could have sworn he felt a pair of ethereal crosshairs land on his forehead. Wade swallowed, his throat suddenly Sahara-dry. "Sir?"

That seemed to be the impetus to compel Gibbs to speak. "About Abby…"

Recalling the afternoon prior when the agent had appeared, massive plastic cup of his new boss's favorite drink in tow, to confirm the results from the tests which he and Sam had passed along that morning, sudden realization dawned on Wade. He couldn't help it – he laughed. "You don't gotta worry none 'bout Miss Abby," he said. "I may be a backwater hick outta the wilds of Texas, but I ain't stupid – ya don't date the boss. An' even if I _was _stupid enough to try it, I'm self-aware enough to know I ain't her type." He still had that crosshairs-feeling on his head, so he tried to explain his perspective to the agent a little more clearly. "Hey, I'll admit I ain't above lookin' – based on how she dresses, she _likes_ bein' looked at – don't mean I'm ever gonna do anything about it." Wade smiled his most disarming smile. "I like museums, too, ya know."

The incongruous nature of envisioning Wade Harper strolling through an art gallery finally removed the ghostly crosshairs from his head and Wade could see an amused glint enter the agent's eyes. He shrugged a little, "Been a Charter member of the Smithsonian ever since I moved to DC. Got a weakness for their Geology, Gems and Minerals exhibit." Wade tried to swallow again, only to find that spit was apparently at a premium. "Same concept, though. Look, but don't touch. So really, you don't gotta worry none about Miss Abby." He coughed a little. "Besides, I ain't never liked the taste of dirt, so I'm gonna stop diggin' a hole here while I can still see daylight."

Gibbs reached over and flicked the elevator's emergency stop switch. "Uh-huh," he said as the box continued on its way to Abby's floor. As it slowed to its normal stop and the doors slid open, Wade stepped out only to be stopped by Gibbs' voice. "And Harper?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't call me 'sir'," Gibbs said, the doors starting to close. "I work for a living."

Wade was left blinking at the closed elevator doors, wondering what the _hell_ just happened.

He took a moment to collect himself and push the encounter from his mind before heading towards the open door at the end of the hall.

"…then add the solution, and cap the end," Abby was obviously explaining something to Sam, but with her back to the door, Wade couldn't tell if she was wearing pants or a skirt – her boots were just tall enough that the hem of her lab coat was in the way. "Slide it into the centrifuge, set the timer according to the chart, and presto."

"Instant-DNA – just add water?"

Abby chuckled and Wade lingered in the doorway. He watched Abby nod. "Sorta. It's really not all that hard to run the tests themselves."

"A trained monkey could do this part, I know. I get it. It's reading the results that takes the time and training," Sam sounded tired and rapidly approaching the 'fed up mom' tone Wade distinctly recalled from nearly every argument he and his brother had ever engaged in while growing up outside Amarillo. Sam sighed and hoisted herself onto the table where most physical evidence wound up and stripped off a pair of blue gloves. "Look, Abby – I know you're not all that happy to have to share your lab, and this is what? The third day I'm here? But, I feel I should let you know something, kiddo: if I wanted to head my own lab, I _could_. I just don't _want_ to. Just like I really don't _want_ to teach. I'm more than happy to be the low-girl on the totem pole around here – you've been doing it all solo long enough that you've earned the right to your place, PhD or no PhD, and Wade? Hell, if there was someone born for lab-work, it's him. I'm not here to question your abilities, just to cover what you're not as familiar with… And there can't be _that_ many instances where you need an expert with documents and paper, so when I don't have something on deck, I'll schlep and haul and do whatever monkey-work you tell me to." Wade had to wonder just what he'd missed, though he preened a little at the praise. "So do us both a favor, and cut the condescension," Sam continued, the 'fed up mom' tone reaching that same no-nonsense level that usually had Wade and his brother hustling to do whatever it was she wanted. "I'm _not_ a threat to you. I'm here, mainly, to get out of the house before my kids make me lose my mind to the point where I no longer remember what it's like to hold an adult conversation. If I can accomplish that and still manage to make use of the innumerable hours I've spent in classrooms, so much the better. But, please, stop treating me like you expect me to try to take over."

Wade couldn't see Abby's expression from where he was standing, but whatever it looked like, it made Sam sigh again. "Look – if you don't believe me, tell you what. Why don't you come over this Saturday? You'll see just why I really, _really_ don't want to be in charge." Sam's eyes flickered over to where Wade was still standing in the doorway. "You, too, Tex. Give you a chance to meet another soldier-geek," she smiled a brittle facsimile of her usual grin at him.

Knowing both that it was useless to pretend he'd merely just arrived and hadn't overheard the lecture – Sam had demonstrated an uncanny ability to know when someone else was in the room several times the day before – and that Sam was referring to her husband with the 'soldier-geek' comment, Wade nodded and finished stepping into the room. "Be honored, Sam," he said. "Y'all need me to bring anything?"

Sam shook her head. "No – just show up. Say, three-ish? We'll do barbecue if it's nice and if it rains, I'll have Quin cook for us."

Wade laughed a little, "You _sure_ you don't want me to bring nothin'?"

Sam's smile took on a little of her normal shine. "Hey, with five kids and three adults the norm – not counting any of the times one or more of the kids has friends over, which is more often than not during the summer – I don't think we'd even _notice_ one or two more folk. So, yeah. Just show up."

"Count me in, then," Wade replied. "How 'bout you, Miss Abby? You gonna come, too?"

Abby's mouth answered for her, long before her brain could supply any objections. "Sure," it said. "Why not?" She'd wait until later to kick herself; she really didn't _want_ to, but she was coming to really like her new helpers. Besides actually being competent – though Sam needed brought up to speed with the equipment she was unfamiliar with and Wade's laugh did disturbingly pleasant things to her insides – they knew how to have fun with their jobs. Though the CD she'd found in her player the day before left a lot to be desired, sharing her taste in music – though it would have been a bonus – wasn't necessary to liking them. If it was, she doubted she'd ever have become friends with Tony.

The urge to kick herself passed as an idea surfaced. "Unless you'd rather not, why don't you invite Gibbs, too?"

The last of the brittleness faded from Sam's smile as it took on genuine warm tones. "And DiNozzo and McGee, too, I suppose? And if I invite those three, I may as well ask the doc downstairs, too, and Jimmy. Right?"

"I wouldn't want anyone to feel left out," Abby agreed.

Sam knew she just wanted her friends there so that she wouldn't feel so out-of-place herself. "Okay, if we're gonna do a barbecue, let's do it up right." Sam took a moment to count on her fingers. "Now, I don't care if you're of age to drink or not, but we don't keep booze in the house, so if you want something harder than regular lemonade and iced tea, you'll need to bring it yourself. And with ten adults plus five kids – um… Anyone else likely to show? Girlfriends, spouses, other kids?" Abby shook her head and Sam's smile flickered out long enough to say, "How sad." She shook her head again and went back on-topic. "Okay, so ten adults and five kids…" Sam trailed off as she jumped off the table and wandered over to peer out the window and look up at the sky. She stared for a moment, flexing her left hand a few times.

"Sam?" Abby said.

Wade laid a hand on her shoulder before she could go over to the other tech. "Don't." Wade had seen his grandmother do precisely the same thing from time to time all while growing up, only his grandma used an old break in her right arm to do so. "She's readin' the weather. Give her a minute."

Sam nodded decisively and spun around. "Yeah, Saturday'll do – though I'm pretty sure it'll rain Sunday. I'll pick up a side of beef, so meat'll be taken care of, and I'll have Quin make a mess of deviled eggs. We'll also make sure there's plenty of soda and chips handy. Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows, too. Anything else you want, you'll hafta bring yourselves. Good enough?"

"Sounds like fun," Wade replied.

* * *

It was amazing the sheer amount of information that one could unearth just by using a simple search-engine once a name and location were known.

The information unearthed, however, was enough to make him more than upset. Sure, he didn't begrudge the second open slot going to Dr. Carpenter-Irving; she, at least, had the credentials to warrant the posting. It was the other one that grated.

The kid hadn't even _finished_ his Masters, yet, so how in the hell did he get the other position?

Parker kept digging.

It wasn't an obsession – just curiosity.

It was _just_ curiosity. Just to know where he'd gone wrong in the interview. He wouldn't be able to avoid the mistake again if he didn't understand what had gone wrong.

Just like with the DUI. Alcohol and driving were not good things to mix, so he cut out both, that way the probability of a repeat occurrence dropped to near-zero.

Unlike most of the rest of the world, Parker knew that there was no such thing as zero-probability; no matter how unlikely a situation, there was always a _chance_ it _could_ happen, if conditions were right. The trick was to keep the variables leading to those circumstances well in control, thus ensuring that _chance_ didn't come to pass.

Needless to say, Parker wasn't a betting kind of man.

And it was just curiosity.

Or so he told himself.

* * *

**A/N2:** You know, I really feel sorry for the shadow-people who are forced to track all my internet questions – I'm sure they think I'm totally nuts; research for this (and upcoming) chapter(s) included a (somewhat) fruitless search of how long it takes to freeze a body solid, what denominations bearer bonds come in, a random lyric-search, a jaunt over to the Smithsonian's website, and a quick foray into thinkgeek (dot) com's t-shirts.

Anyway, I had to re-write the scene between Gibbs and Wade several times – I kept getting too wordy with our favorite 'functional mute'. I hope I finally got it right.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And here's another installment for y'all. Enjoy!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Seven_

Had he ever actually read any Douglas Adams, Gibbs would have been forced to agree with Arthur Dent – Thursdays generally sucked. What made this particular Thursday especially sucky was the fact that the day before had been the last day his favored caffeine pusher had been open; the owner had bowed to the inevitability and had sold the shop to Starbucks, and while the mega-chain was remodeling the property, Gibbs' only other source of coffee within walking distance of work was the Dunkin' Donuts at the corners of Tenth and O Streets SE. But he'd never been particularly fond of their coffee (although it _was_ a damn sight better than the crap in the break room).

As he pulled into the garage at NCIS, most thought concerning coffee fled his brain. Leaning against the wall at the top of his usual parking place was Abby's blue-haired assistant. She was wearing what he was rapidly coming to think of as her 'uniform' – a pair of white sneakers, straight-leg jeans of a middling shade of blue, and a t-shirt; today's read 'When in doubt, poke it with a stick'. Her curly hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and she was carrying a heavy-duty Coleman thermos. Gibbs couldn't help but wonder if it contained coffee.

"Morning," she greeted him as he exited his car. Much like his house, he didn't bother locking the car's doors on exiting. "Now, I realize you're not much of a conversationalist – I _have_ been warned, so to speak – and so I won't be expecting much in the way of feedback here." Sam followed him onto the elevator. "However," she beat him to the control panel and hit the button for the lobby. "I've a proposition for you. You see, Abby and I find ourselves at something of an impasse – we could be really great friends, but she doesn't believe me when I say I don't particularly _want_ to head anything, let alone her lab. So, I invited her over for a barbecue this Saturday, but I don't think she wants to come alone. Now, since it's my house, I figured it would sound better to invite you directly, but I'm sure Abby will take it on herself to ask, too."

The elevator slowed to a stop and the unlikely pair were waved through security with minimal fuss – Gibbs had been working there long enough that _everyone_ knew him, and Sam's blue hair was a little hard to forget – and climbed aboard the elevator that would take them to the squad room. Sam continued on her rather Ducky-esque ramble throughout the entire process. "Anyway, it's this Saturday, out at my place. If you need directions, I can jot them down for you later. Three o'clock – give or take a half-hour or so. I've got meat and deviled eggs covered, and I think Wade mentioned he'd bring along some dessert-like item, but other than that, the field's wide open. We're aiming for ten adults and five kids total." The elevator stopped at the bullpen and the two exited. Gibbs headed for his desk and Sam followed along behind. "And I wholly understand that I'll have to postpone if a case comes in, so I've got that covered."

Sam lingered at the edge of his desk while he turned on his computer and settled into his chair. "Well?"

Gibbs looked up at her. She had one hand on her hip, the other still dangling by her side with the green thermos in hand. "Well what?" he asked.

Sam let out a little huff of air. "Okay, asking doesn't work on you – so I see before me two options. Option A: I can simply tell you to show up, and when you don't, I'll send Quin on by with Hope; there's no one that can do emotional blackmail quite like my six year-old. Or there's always option B."

"And what's that?"

Sam smirked and held up the thermos. "Blatant bribery. You see, I know Capitol Grounds closed down yesterday, which leaves you with the options of either the sludge in the break room – which I wouldn't drink if you paid me." While speaking, she unscrewed the cup-lid to the thermos. "Or the half-hour walk over to Dunkin' Donuts, and though their coffee is palatable, it's not worth a half-hour walk in one direction." She leveled her smirk at Gibbs, who realized just what her natural hair color was under the blue as she undid the rubber stopper with a _squeak_.

The coffee-fumes drifted lazily over to Gibbs and prodded a few more brain cells into alertness; said brain cells commenced focusing on the thermos as Sam poured a cupful into the silver lid. He could tell without even tasting it that it was black – not only did it seem to suck the available light into its depths, the liquid version of a black hole, but sugared coffee _smelled_ different, and this coffee's vapors held no trace of _syrup_. Some fraction of his awareness that wasn't focused on the coffee heard Sam continuing to talk. "Of course, if you don't want to come by on Saturday, that's completely up to you." She went to lift the silver cup of the thermos to her lips and Gibbs hand shot out and landed lightly on hers.

Gibbs met Sam's eyes. "You are an evil, _evil_ woman."

Sam laughed. "Honey, I been called worse." She relinquished her hold on the coffee cup. "So," she said as Gibbs took a moment to savor its steam before sipping lightly at the scalding-hot liquid. "Can I expect to see you there?"

Gibbs merely nodded. Grinning brightly, Sam screwed the rubber stopper back into the neck of the thermos and left it on the corner of Gibbs desk. As she headed for the elevator that would take her down to the lab, Gibbs couldn't help but feel as though he'd sold his soul for a thermos of coffee.

He took another sip of the black brew and allowed a smile to surface. _But with coffee like this, it just might've been worth it_. As Sam disappeared around the corner of the staircase, another thought hit him. _She's remarkably well-informed for only having been here three days._

* * *

Claiming paperwork, Abby had retreated to her office and left Wade and Sam out in the main lab, trading music trivia and tidbits on their respective areas of expertise. In reality, Abby didn't really have much paperwork that needed done – she had a longstanding habit of documenting as she went along, and unlike nearly every other department, her requisition forms were filled out monthly, not quarterly; more like a shopping list as gloves and solutions and various chemicals were used and new supplies needed. So, instead of filling out paperwork as she'd claimed, she pulled up a game of solitaire on her computer and alternated between halfheartedly moving the cards on the screen and watching her new assistants interact.

Though she did like watching Wade – and couldn't help but wonder what he'd look like with a little eyeliner and a pair of skinny jeans cross-threaded with some chains and a pair of heavy boots, maybe the kind with the stainless caps on the toes – most of her attention was on Samantha. In truth, she didn't quite know why she felt so threatened by her – she'd been at her job for almost a decade, and but_ damn_, that thought made her feel _old_. Anyway, she was more than qualified for her position and had the seniority, but she knew from reading Sam's file that not only did Samantha have her beat in the world of academia (it seemed as though Sam tended to acquire degrees as a _hobby_, for cryin' out loud), but that Sam was… Well, Sam was younger than Abby – and didn't that just grate? Not that five or six years was really all that much, not in the grand scheme of things, but still…

It didn't help when Sam said that she didn't _want_ to be in charge because… Well, _seriously_? Who _wouldn't_ want to head their own lab? It had been her own dream all while climbing through the rusty piles of wreckage down in Louisiana as a kid.

Wade wasn't as much of a threat, mainly because he was still working on his Masters, but partly because of the fact that – aside from random, gun-wielding psychos – she'd never really felt threatened by a guy. _What about Michael?_ her subconscious prodded. _He was just the exception that proved the rule, that's all_. She moved the ten of hearts onto the jack of clubs. _Or maybe I should just give up and put him under the 'random psycho' heading once and for all._ The nine of spades joined the pile and her eyes flicked back to where Wade was showing Sam something through the eyepiece of Abby's comparison microscope. Besides, Wade was almost excruciatingly polite to her, regardless of where his eyes happened to wander, and had instinctively picked up on how she _hated_ being called 'ma'am'. She even sorta liked how he always called her 'Miss Abby' – it was almost like being in one of Tony's old movies, where chivalry was still alive and well and manners were less of an enduring 'Old South tradition' and more how things simply _were_.

Abby shook her head, shoving aside the random thoughts and refocused both on her game and on her new techs. The queen of diamonds was moved to the king of spades.

Unaware of their boss's scrutiny, Wade was enthusing over a pair of bullets that had been delivered the previous afternoon by an agent on Balboa's team and trying to get Sam to see the differences between the grooves carved on the sides of the soft lead.

Sam shook her head and looked up from the microscope's eyepieces. "Sorry, Tex, but I plain don't see what you're talking about."

Wade snorted and hit a few keys on the workstation's computer to bring up the images on the plasma screen bolted to the wall. He pulled his keys from his pocket and fiddled with a large, bullet-shaped keychain for a moment. Sam was puzzled until a small red dot appeared on his cupped palm for a moment. "You carry a laser-pointer around with you, yet refuse to call yourself a geek?"

Wade shook his head, "Not a geek, Sam. Besides, this is a cat-toy, not a laser-pointer, at least normally."

"Didn't know you had a cat," Sam replied.

"Three, actually, but don't tell my landlord that – he's only ever seen the one." he said. He ran the red dot across the floor and up to where the pictures of the bullets were shown on the plasma. "See how the grooves on this one look a little like feathers?"

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding. "Lemme guess, their names are 'Killer', 'Butch', and 'Psycho'."

"Nope," Wade replied and moved the dot to the second bullet. "And see how the grooves on this one are pretty smooth?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded again. "Hmm… 'Powder', 'Smoke', and 'Lead'?" she guessed again.

"Nope," Wade repeated. "Since the grooves don't have the same types of marks, it means they were fired from different guns. Either that, or the shooter stopped to change out the barrel between firings."

"Okay, I'll buy that. So this means what, there were two shooters?" Sam asked, then tried a third time. "'Fluffy', 'Princess', and 'Snowball'?"

"Give it up, Sam, you're not going to guess. And either there were two shooters or one shooter with two guns."

"The photos only showed footprints from one set of sneakers, so that's more likely," Sam said. "And if I can't guess, then just tell me."

"Salty, Char, and Sulf," Wade replied.

Sam chuckled, "I woulda got there eventually. I assume those're short for 'Saltpeter', 'Charcoal', and 'Sulfur', right?" She named the three primary ingredients for black powder.

Wade shrugged noncommittally. "Could be," he allowed.

* * *

Tony had just hit 'print' on his wrap-report on the case of the strangled DPORCP when Gibbs' desk phone rang – and yes, the lab tech had been right, the petty officer had been strangled by his ex, using the scarf he'd bought her for Christmas the year before. Tony listened with half an ear as he collected the report, scrawled his signature on it and sat it on Gibbs' desk.

Gibbs hung up the phone and reached for the drawer where he kept his gun. "Gear up!"

Tony managed to keep the 'yes!' from escaping – he always liked it when new cases waited until the existing case's paperwork was finished, but not long enough to have them doing mindless busywork (like inventorying the van) or (suppress the shudder now) _cold cases_. "DiNozzo," Gibbs tossed him the keys, "gas the truck – McGee, go get Ducky. Got a body in Bethesda, at the Baskin Robbins."

Tony snatched the keys out of the air and holstered his own weapon. Shouldering his backpack, he headed for the elevator, riding his normal guilty high of excitement he got at the start of any case. They had a _case_, so _no_ mindless make-work and _no_ wading through cold cases and no _boredom_, but it kinda sucked that someone died. _Aren't we due for a kidnapping or an embezzlement scheme? Last few months, it's been nothing but bodies, bodies, bodies._

The thought triggered an earworm. _Damn it. Knew hanging out with Abby would wind up being hazardous to my sanity._ His pace shifted slightly to coincide with the beat of Stabbing Westward now playing in his head.

When the team finally arrived at the Bethesda Baskin Robbins, the song hadn't faded any, and Tony was mostly-resigned to the fact that it was going to be one of those really irritating earworms that wouldn't die until (or unless) the song in question was actually heard. It was bad enough that Tim had to elbow him to get his attention when they entered the walk-in freezer. "Photos!" McEarworm-Free hissed.

Shaking his head in a futile attempt to derail the repeating record in his head, Tony focused on the dead man on the floor of the freezer in front of him. The dead guy was curled up on his right side, encased in what appeared to be a good half-inch of ice. The insignias on his uniform, though a little blurred through the ice, clearly marked him as a lance corporal. The nametag-pin from the uniform's khaki-colored shirt's right breast was the only obviously-missing bit, but even through the ice, a bead-chain could be seen around the man's neck. _Whoever did this wasn't _too_ worried about us identifying you, were they?_

Ducky arrived as Tony took his last photo of the body itself. "Well, well, what have we here?" The Scotsman knelt near to the body, but didn't touch it yet.

"Obviously a secondary scene," Gibbs replied, indicating the lack of ice on the floor of the freezer itself. "And no, Duck, I _won't _be asking you for a TOD just yet," he continued with a wry little smile in place.

"I should hope not, Jethro. It will take hours to melt all this ice off of our young lance corporal." Ducky rapped the ice with his knuckles, producing a sharp noise not unlike knocking on wood.

"Could you _not_ do that, Ducky?" McGee was an interesting shade of McGreen that Tony hadn't seen on Probie's face since that first case with the body in the acid vat down at Norfolk. "It's really disturbing."

Tony was about to make some sort of half-assed joke when he realized Ducky'd come alone. "Hey, where's Palmer?"

"The lad's home sick today," Ducky replied. "Something about the new diner out near his apartment not being up to code or some such."

"DiNozzo, you done with the photos?"

"Yes, boss," Tony replied as he replaced the lens cap on the camera.

Gibbs jerked his chin towards the body, "Then give Ducky a hand. McGee, you go get the kid's statement." He was, of course, referring to the pasty-colored tween who'd found the body.

"On it, boss," Tony and Tim's reply was managed in stereo.

* * *

A couple of hours later, while Abby and Tim were working on cleaning up the ice-distorted images of the body's face, trying to hunt down an ID, and Wade was finishing the last of the tests on the bullets from Balboa's case, Sam was watching everyone work and going quietly insane. She was _bored_. If this kept up, she'd have to hunt out some superglue and a quarter and take herself up to the break room for a little entertainment.

Of course, she couldn't have known that ever since a particularly dry spell back in May of '02 when _someone_ (cough-DiNozzo-cough) had glued all the telephone's handsets to their bases, nearly every agent kept a bottle of acetone in their desks.

But, as luck would have it, she didn't have to resort to superglue hijinks. Wade asked Abby where some particularly tongue-twisty chemical was hiding, and Abby spun around on her stool to answer. After letting Wade know that it was 'in the blue bottle on the top shelf of the fridge', she noticed that Sam was leaning against the countertop, perilously close to actually touching Major MassSpec. "Hey, Sam – why don't you go down and give Ducky a hand? His normal assistant's out sick today."

Sam nodded and exited the room. _I just hope he's okay with me _way_ on the other side of the room. Unless he's a fan of being puked on, of course._ Real-life guts'n'gore and Sam didn't get along very well. She could handle blood, but much more than that had her feeling lightheaded and dizzy.

On exiting the elevator, she could clearly hear the ME. "…you worry, my boy. This isn't the first time we've had to rescue someone in your predicament. Of course, the last time, there were four such poor souls, and we first had to dig them out of a pond, but the sentiment remains unchanged. However, I must say this is the first time we've had to pull someone from an ice-cream freezer. Did you know, dear boy, that ice cream's popularity in the US began –"

Sam smiled and continued the statement, "Because Dolley Madison had a thing for oyster-flavored ice cream. And thus began a long history of the First Lady influencing national trends."

"Quite right, Samantha. What brings you down?"

"Abby and Wade are busy, there's nothing I can do right now, and that McGee person's using the computer I've taken to play solitaire on. So, Abby said your normal helper wasn't here today and sent me down. Though, I should warn you, I don't do well with…well, the gooey stuff inside folk."

Ducky chuckled. "It will be quite some time before we get that far," he replied. "Our lance corporal here is still thawing."

"So I see," Sam looked at the body on the steel table closest to the drawer-wall. There was still a good quarter-inch or so of ice encasing the man. "Too bad we can't speed up the process…"

"What did you have in mind, my dear?"

"Well," she shrugged, "if it weren't for the fact you've gotta salvage whatever bits'n'pieces might be on him under the ice, I'd recommend salt. Works fine for the roads in wintertime, right?"

"Hmm… The last time we had to deal with bodies encased in ice, someone had managed to locate several strong lights – two-hundred watt bulbs or some such. Perhaps the lights are still around?"

"If you go check on that, I'll see if maybe I can hunt up a hairdryer or two. Sound good?"

"Yes," Ducky nodded thoughtfully, "that just might do the trick. At least get us through the outer ice – it will be a day or two yet before I can get to the 'gooey bits'n'pieces'."

Though it didn't take long to locate a hairdryer – Sam had headed straight for the legal department, where the women outnumbered the men three-to-one – it took nearly an hour to barter it away from its owner (who had been understandably reluctant about letting it anywhere _near_ the morgue). Sam eventually had to hand over seventy bucks, but returned to Ducky triumphant.

By the time Gibbs showed up – just after six that evening – Sam and the doctor had managed to get most of the ice removed from the dead man's clothing and only a little remained on the man's exposed skin. "Surely, you must realize I can't possibly have anything for you yet, Jethro," Ducky said as he worked a hand-sized patch of ice off of the man's right shoe.

"Not what I came for, Duck," Gibbs replied.

Sam looked up from where she'd been running the hairdryer along the lance corporal's side to see the silver-haired agent looking at her. He held out her thermos. Sam switched off the hairdryer and sat it down. She accepted the return of her thermos with a smirk. "Don't worry," she said. "I'll bring more tomorrow."

Gibbs favored her with one of his fond grins before turning his attention to Duck. "Abby hasn't managed to match his face yet. Got a better photo?"

Ducky nodded, "Indeed, Jethro. Not ten minutes ago, we managed to clear enough of the ice." He gestured to the mostly ice-free face. "Samantha, where did you put the camera?"

"Over on your desk," she made a vague gesture towards the ME's desk.

Gibbs strode over and removed the camera's memory-stick and headed out without saying anything else.

Once he was gone, Ducky walked over to stand by Sam. "What was that about?" he asked, indicating the green thermos Sam still held.

"Coffee," Sam replied, her smirk still firmly in place. "Quin calls it 'Carpenter Black', but growing up, we just called it 'homestyle'." She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly, though Ducky was unsure as to why. "But, you were saying about the Balinese dancing girl and the tiger shark?"

Before Ducky could get back to the story he had been telling, his phone rang. "Just a moment, Samantha." He hurried to his desk. "Autopsy…yes, of course…not a problem…" He held the receiver out to Sam. "It is, as they say, for you."

Sam strode over and took the phone, "Yeah?"

"Where the _hell_ are you?"

Sam winced. Quin sounded _pissed_. "Work. I've been helping out the medical examiner today –"

"You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!"

Yeah, Quin was pissed as hell. Sam shook her head, not caring that her spouse couldn't see it over the phone. "No way. It can't be _that_ late already–"

"It's ten past _six_, Sammy!"

Sam winced again and resolutely managed to bite down the retort that Quin couldn't _possibly_ be right. "Damn it all to hell – I'll be there in forty minutes, hon." She hung up before he could reply. "I gotta go, Doc, shoulda been outta here over an hour ago. Quin's waitin' on me."

"Drive safely, my dear," Ducky replied as Sam rushed from the room. After a moment of staring after her, he returned his attention to the dead man. "Now where was I? Oh, yes. Anyway, the tiger shark had been circling the boat for nearly an hour when…"

* * *

**A/N2:** I didn't get quite as far in this chapter as I'd hoped, but then again, since I _do_ research, it made sense how this came together (for now, I want to stick to my day-per-chapter theme, at least for a while longer). I hope you all enjoyed it!

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I had wanted this chapter to be primarily in Wade's POV, much like how the previous chapter was mainly in Sam's, but he informed me that 'his' chapters come later in the story. Now, I've tried writing against my characters' opinions before, and – to tell the truth – the stories wound up sucking big-time, so I ain't gonna argue none. Ergo, the next few chapters will likely alternate among our canon characters and Samantha. Though, I do know there are some scattered scenes on Wade's side of things…just to let y'all know, of course.

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Eight_

It was a surprise to find out his morning run took him past the kid's apartment building every day. That little corner grocery place, run by that guy who could barely speak English – the apartment was over the store. That same fucking store where he stopped off for a quick cup of hot chocolate during his wintertime runs.

The kid fucking _lived_ there.

And he ran past it every morning.

Every. Damn. Day.

* * *

Much like the day before, Sam was waiting in the garage for Gibbs, thermos in hand. Her t-shirt today sported a line drawing of Shakespeare. Unlike the day before, however, Sam merely handed the thermos over immediately, along with a sunny grin, which prompted a nearly-inaudible grumble against 'morning people' as Gibbs hit the button in the elevator. The trip to the lobby and up to the squad room was done in companionable silence; Sam chewing on her lip to keep from laughing at Gibbs' presumption. _Morning person? HAH! Where does he think the coffee comes from? The caffeine fairy?_

DiNozzo was already in, sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He hung it up with an exasperated sigh. "Well, that was pointless," he grumbled.

"Really?" Sam asked, pausing by his desk.

"Really really," Tony confirmed, his frown of frustration melting away to a light smile.

Sam snorted. "Too easy – _Shrek_."

Tony scrubbed a hand across his face. "Fine," he retorted. "How about 'Plan A for awful and plan B for bad, even worse than awful'." He was secretly delighted that someone had finally arrived that could match him in movie trivia.

"Oh, that one's a little tougher, or _would_ be, were not for the fact that it was my cousin Andy's favorite movie of all time. _Fifty/Fifty_, the 1992 version with Peter Weller and Robert Hays. Andy had a thing for Ramona Rahman." Sam shook her head with a little wistful smile, a tinge of sadness flashing through her eyes almost too quick to see properly. "Here's one for you – 'So many pretty parts, and no pretty wholes.'" Sam noticed the growing irritation being glared their way by Gibbs. "Think on it – catch up with ya later." She continued her way on to the lab. As she made her way around the stairwell, she could hear DiNozzo reporting on a decided lack of missing Marines matching the description of the body brought in the day before.

* * *

"Mornin', Doc," Sam greeted Ducky. "Abby was wondering if he was thawed enough for you to give her something to do because she's not getting anywhere with the photos."

"I only just arrived myself, Samantha. We shall have to see, won't we?" Ducky finished pulling on his lab coat and snagged a pair of gloves out of a handy box.

Sam followed his example and extracted a pair of her nitrile gloves from her pocket. She pulled them on as she followed the doctor to the occupied table. "Your assistant still out sick?" she asked, accepting the camera that Ducky held out to her.

"Though I am certain he would do well to spend the day at home in bed, I highly doubt he shall. Mr. Palmer has a morning class on Fridays, and despises having to miss work, so he'll be in around eleven-thirty," Ducky replied.

Working under the ME's instruction, Sam took photographs while the doctor examined the corpse. After ascertaining that the body had thawed enough that they could remove his clothing, though it would still be a while before the insides had thawed enough to be able to make his limbs bend, Ducky retrieved a pair of heavy, black-handled steel scissors. They reminded Sam of the pair of sewing shears kept in the craft box at Gramma Carpenter's house. While Doc quickly divested the man of his shirt, shoes, and undershirt, Sam noticed something tucked in the man's left-front pocket. Doing as she'd been instructed, she photographed it several times and from different angles. "Hey, Doc, found something," she said as she sat the camera down.

"What did you locate, dear girl?"

"Paper…" Sam 'hmmed' and carefully removed it from the pocket. "Maybe not…" She moved it to a dry spot on the next table over and grabbed the hairdryer from the day before. "If it was paper, it wouldn't have stood up so well to soaking," she spoke loudly, over the hum of the dryer. "Kinda like how if you wash your jeans with your grocery list in one pocket and a twenty in the other, the money'll come out unscathed, but the list winds up as confetti…"

"So what have you found?" Ducky asked, not looking up from where he was now cutting the man's trousers off. "A five? A fifty? Or perhaps a coveted C-note?"

"None of the above," Sam replied, blinking in disbelief as she rapidly – albeit, _carefully_ – unfolded the document. Gingerly cradling it in her hands, she carried the document over to where Ducky was finishing up with the man's pants. "If this is what I _think_ it is…" She started to move it into the doctor's line-of-sight, but stopped suddenly as her right forearm brushed against the man's thigh. She let out a pained hiss of air and dropped the paper onto the man's belt-buckle.

"Samantha?" Ducky sat the scissors down on the man's abdomen and hurried around to the far side of the table. Sam had her arm bent so that her wrist was up by her ear and was looking at a painful red rash that had popped up on her arm. "That would be contact dermatitis, my dear. I've some hydrocortisone in the first aid kit which should help take the sting out."

Ducky hurried to the cabinet wherein he kept all his first aid supplies. Sam merely looked from the instant rash to the body and back again. "Curiouser and curiouser," she muttered.

"Beg your pardon?" Ducky reappeared with a tube of cream.

"The only thing I'm allergic to, Doc – and I mean the absolute _only _thing – is latex; and I'm very, _very _allergic to it. Right after Quin and me met, I was in a car-accident. Had a chunk of chrome through my left shoulder, and since I was out cold on arriving in the ER, the docs didn't know – they put me into anaphylactic shock before they realized it was their damn gloves causing it. It's why I now wear this," she tugged a light chain out from behind her shirt to reveal the distinctive silver, red, and white pendant of a Medic-Alert tab. "So that begs the question – why's he have latex on his leg?"

"That is a very good question," Ducky replied. He handed Sam the tube of skin-cream and went back to where he'd left off removing the man's pants. "Were you unaware of your allergy before the car accident?" he asked peering at the man's leg. Unable to see any residues, he retrieved a lighted magnifying glass from the tray of implements near to hand.

"No, just hadn't had much experience with needing an alert before," Sam replied, applying a dollop of the medicated ointment to the rash on her forearm. "Never had any broken bones or stitches growing up, and I've still got my tonsils _and_ my appendix. And, before you ask," she leveled a self-depreciating look at the ME, "there _is_ a reason why Hope looks _nothing_ like Quin."

The doctor chuckled before returning Sam's look with a stern one of his own. "I do hope your allergy didn't lead to any other…problems."

Sam shook her head and re-capped the tube of cream. Leaving it on the empty table next to the hairdryer, she joined Ducky's side and peered over his shoulder. "Nah. Only had the one relationship before Quin. Matthew and me – we were the best of friends. Never shoulda tried making it anything more than that."

"Where is he now?" Ducky asked, exchanging the magnifying glass for one slightly stronger.

Though Ducky didn't realize it, Sam's sad, wistful smile made its second appearance of the day. "He…" Sam swallowed and squared her shoulders. She captured Ducky's gaze. "He died saving my ass. Pulled me from a fire… Went back in, the damn fool, after another friend of ours – Aerie and Michael were going through a rough patch and she was crashing on my sofa at the time – but the second floor crashed in…"

Ducky watched Sam's eyes go distant, seeing things play out in her memory. "Did he know about Hope?" he asked, bringing her attention back to the here-and-now.

Sam shook her head again, this time to dispel the memories and grief and guilt she still carred. "Hell, Doc," she replied, forcibly pulling herself back into her normal headspace. "_I_ didn't even know about Hope at the time, so how could he've?"

Ducky chuckled a little before returning his attention to the dead man's thigh. A few moments passed in silence as he searched for any trace of the latex Sam had brushed against. "Hmm…"

"What?"

"I don't see any evidence of latex, my dear – but that doesn't mean it isn't there. Would you grab a specimen jar for me?" Ducky reached for a pair of tweezers and a scalpel off of the instrument tray.

Sam blanched, realizing that the ME was going to take a sample of the man's skin. "Yeah, sure, Doc," she said, quickly turning away. A moment later, she'd returned with a small glass jar, only to find that Ducky was repeatedly pulling a segment of the man's skin away and releasing it. The _swatht, swatht_ noise it made wasn't wholly unlike a rubber band. Sam paled further. "Could you _not_ do that, Doc?"

Ducky looked up at Sam. He had an odd smile on his face. "My apologies, Samantha, but… Skin doesn't act this way."

Ignoring her nausea at what the doctor _appeared_ to be doing to a dead man, Sam bent over and peered at the little patch of skin he'd been – for lack of a better term – _toying_ with. She pushed her silver-framed glasses up onto her forehead and settled into the same level of focus she usually only used when analyzing documents and paintings.

"Huh. How about that?" she muttered. The skin, though it looked right and even had tiny hairs randomly implanted in it, now sported tiny _cracks_ in the coloration. "Gimme that scalpel, Doc," Sam held out her hand.

Ducky handed the tool to her and joined her in peering at the skin. "What do you see, my dear?"

Sam carefully inserted the scalpel into one of the microscopic cracks she'd noticed and gently pulled it towards her. An odd tearing sound echoed through the stainless-and-tile room as a quarter-sized flake of color separated from the pale beige underlying layer. "It's paint, doc. Really, _really_ good paint. Latex-based, like on most Halloween masks, but that's all it is." She tapped the flake of skintone into the jar and peeled away another chunk, this one a little larger than the previous one. "Could it be a whachamacallit? A…damn it." Sam screwed the top onto the evidence jar. "What's the word I'm looking for? Starts with a 'p', I think."

"A prosthesis?" Ducky supplied.

"Yeah. One of them."

Ducky shook his head. "No, Samantha. Even the most lifelike limbs have an attachment point." He gestured to where he'd left off on cutting away the man's trousers. Though he'd not finished in removing the article of clothing, it was obvious that the leg itself was not any sort of prosthesis.

"If it ain't a stick-leg," Sam said, "then why would it be painted?"

"Altogether not an unreasonable question," Ducky admitted, then strode over to his desk, an odd idea beginning to surface in his mind. "I took a few preliminary x-rays yesterday, but haven't taken a look at them yet," he said, retrieving a large brown manila envelope from the desk's surface. He pulled the films from the envelope and flicked on the light board.

Sam joined Ducky in looking at the x-rays, regardless of the fact that she had little to no idea what she was looking for. Mere moments later, a voice nearly startled badly enough that she was grateful she hadn't been holding anything.

"Tell me you got something for me, Duck," Gibbs demanded.

"What is _with _you people!" Sam exclaimed, her hand pressed against her chest. "All sneaky and silent!"

"Be more observant," Gibbs replied, a light half-smirk on his face. He turned his attention to the ME. "Duck?"

The medical examiner ignored the byplay between Sam and Gibbs, focusing instead on the films before him. "Fascinating…" he whispered.

* * *

Wade pulled into an empty parking place, a little further from the doors than his usual slot – which was currently occupied by a _Prius_, of all things – and dropped his kickstand. He hung his helmet from the handlebars and climbed off his cherry-red bike. He hurried to the elevator, eager to see just what his boss might be (barely) wearing today, and managed to slip in just as they were about to close. He found himself sharing the compartment with a gangly guy that had short, curly brown hair and was wearing round glasses and scrubs. All-in-all, he looked rather like how Wade pictured an adult Harry Potter – not that he'd ever admit having read the books, of course.

The likeness aside, however, Harper was almost positive he'd seen the guy before, but just couldn't place _where._

And then he spoke. "You must be Wade Harper. Abby's told me about you."

The voice cinched it. Wade grinned. "Palmer," he said, offering his hand. Technically, they hadn't 'officially' met before.

"No, that's _my _name," Jimmy replied, his brain-to-mouth filter _still_ not quite fully glued into place, as he shook Wade's hand. "But, of course, you knew that. Abby must have told you about me," he babbled.

"Dude, Palmer, shut up before you start chokin' on them toes of yours. But yeah, I'm Wade." As the elevator came to a stop at the lobby level, Wade asked, "You still bruised from last weekend? 'Cause I dunno 'bout you, but I _hate_ gettin' hit in the neck. Pretty sure it _was_ an accident, though. Ketherland's never been all that great a shot, but what he lacks in accuracy, he more'n makes up for in plannin'."

"It didn't actually bruise," Jimmy replied, tilting his head to the side as though to prove it. "Stung something fierce when it happened, but it didn't bruise."

The two men made their way through security rather quickly – of the two guards that covered the noon shift, one was taking a night class on Tuesdays and Thursdays that, until recently, Wade had been running as the professor's TA, and the other was content to follow the senior guard's lead. Harper and Jimmy were in the next elevator, on their way to the main floor, when Palmer realized what was going on. "You're in Silent Echo!" he exclaimed.

Wade had to laugh. "Yeah – an' you're in Stalker's group. Y'all picked out a name yet, or is it gonna stay at 'Stalker's' until the championship rounds next month?"

Jimmy chuckled, "Don't have a clue. I'm not a real high priority on the rest of the team's listen-to list. I think they think I'm weird."

"If half the stories I've heard are true, man, you _are _weird," Wade replied. The rumors that bounced around Wilderness Jack's Paintball Range were many and varied – the tamest of which placed Palmer and some unlucky girl in a naked position in a morgue drawer. Personally, Wade doubted that one – he'd seen a few drawers in his time and none of them seemed roomy enough to engage in anything remotely fun. _At least, not with a partner_, he amended the thought.

While the two of them rehashed some of the more interesting tales from their weekend paintball club, they made their way through the squad room and to the elevator that would take them down to their respective work-areas. When the elevator halted at Abby's floor, Wade invited Jimmy to join him the following evening at Gallegos. Palmer agreed to drop by, at least for a little while, and Wade continued on into the lab itself.

The place was getting a little crowded. Tony and Tim were there, listening as an over-caffeinated Abby babbled on and on about trace elements and manufacturing statistics of dyes while Gibbs stood there with a 'get to the point' look on his face. Sam, on the other hand, was focused on a piece of paper secured to the lightboard on her desk in the far corner, seemingly oblivious to the other occupants of the room.

Wade nodded greetings to Tim and Tony, went around the far side of the center computer console, and stood next to Sam. From the new position, he could tell that Sam wasn't working, merely staring at the paper on her lightboard and listening to the Abby-babble with a small smile. "What'd I miss?" he asked her, taking care to keep his voice low.

"Well… Turns out we got a fake dead man – that's well-done enough to have fooled the doc for over a day – and a _real_ ten-K bearer bond. They're trying to track down who might've made the simulacrum downstairs so they can make sure it's nothing nefarious. Shoulda seen Tony's reaction when he found out it wasn't real. Called it a 'total work of art'. Not that I disagree none – whoever made it is truly an artist. Granted, they've got _way_ too much time on their hands, but it _is_ a work of art. Hell, the hands have freakin' _fingerprints_."

"So, have they run 'em? Cause if it's got fingerprints, there had to've been a model, if they can find the model, they should be able to find the artist."

Sam nodded, "Yeah, but they're not in the system. Same goes for the guy's face – they thought that they might be able to find out whose skeleton (real skeleton, by the way) and trace it from that end, but no luck so far."

"Have they tried running the serial number yet?"

"What serial number?"

"Well, if it's a real skeleton from a medical-supply place, then there'll be a serial number etched somewhere on it. Either on the skull, pelvis, or femur, depending on which company it came from. If it was from Japan or Europe, though, the serial number would be on a small, metal plate fused to the inside of the skull."

Sam grinned. "Come on, Tex. Let's go see Doc and solve this little mystery for them, whaddaya say?"

Wade mimicked her bright grin. "Sounds like a plan to me," he replied.

* * *

**A/N2:** I'm going to be working 12-hour shifts all this week and next week (unless told otherwise by my boss), so the next chapter might take a while to get out. Just a warning.

Oh, and I thought I might be able to do a fic with a T rating, but my language keeps getting coarser and coarser the further into the tale I go, so to be on the safe side, I upped the rating to M.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Gak – I hate working. I hate working 12-hour shifts. I hate working when we have system issues. But in order to keep eating and whatnot, I have to work. Sigh. Maybe my lotto ticket will win this time and I'll be able to go back to writing six hours a day like I want to. So, everyone cross your fingers for me – if I do win the lotto, then updates for _all_ my fics will start coming far more regularly! Come on guys, gimme some good thoughts!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Nine_

"Hey, Doc! Me an' Wade here got a theory for ya," Sam hollered as the doors to autopsy slid open. Both Ducky and Palmer looked up from the 'body', Palmer's mouth snapping shut mid-word.

"What might that be, my dear?" Ducky replied.

"I think I agree with Tony," Wade commented on seeing the 'body' on the table nearest the body-coolers. "It really _is_ a work of art."

"Yeah, that it is," Sam agreed, tossing her comment over her shoulder at Wade while striding over to where the 'art' lay. Meeting Ducky's eyes, she continued with, "But Harper here says that if it's a real skeleton, we should be able to find a serial number."

Wade took a moment to reiterate to the doctor what he'd already told Sam up in the lab and moments later, all four of them were scrutinizing the x-rays Ducky had taken. Roughly twenty minutes later, they hit paydirt with the x-ray of the left leg. "Borrow your computer, Doc?" Sam asked while Wade tried to copy down the shadowy etching shown on the x-ray.

"That a five or an 'S'?" Wade asked of Palmer while Ducky nodded his assent to Sam.

"A five, I think," Palmer replied. "Yeah, it's a five – the last one's an 'S' though."

"Yeah…" Wade scribbled the number down and tore the slip of paper out of his memo book and handed it to Sam. "Try MedCo Classroom first."

Sam grinned and snagged the paper on her way to Ducky's computer. "I _can_ run a Google search, you know."

"Why bother," Wade retorted as he followed her, "when you don't hafta?"

"Point. What's the count to?" Sam asked.

"Sixteen-fourteen in my favor," Wade replied.

"Damn. Gonna hafta do something about that," Sam said as she took a seat at the doctor's computer.

While the two lab-techs squabbled good-naturedly at the computer, Jimmy asked Ducky, "What are they doing?"

"Just guessing," the doctor replied, "but I would assume they're doing their job."

"Hey, gimme your phone," Sam interrupted her own 'argument' with Wade.

"Why _my _phone? Why not use your own?"

"Don't have one," Sam said. "Can barely tolerate the damn thing on the wall in the kitchen at home, what makes you think I want one that follows me around?"

Wade sighed and handed over his cell. "And just why are _you_ gonna call?"

Sam smirked. "Because, Tex," she replied while dialing the toll-free on the computer screen, "you don't have my…skills." Suddenly her entire manner switched as her focus shifted from Wade to whoever was on the other end of the phone line. "Ah, yes, miss. This is Dr. Carpenter-Irving; I need someone to trace a serial number from a display skeleton for me, please." Her tone mutated from friendly and animated to all-business, take-no-prisoners. "I understand, however, the display in question was used in a rather tasteless practical joke. It isn't one we keep in-house, so we were hoping to track down who had purchased it." The smile with which she punctuated the comment could have given a shark cause to pause. "We are hoping to be able to handle this issue without involving lawyers." Sam sighed, "Look, if you're unwilling to assist me, feel free to connect me with your supervisor…Yes, I'll hold."

"So, what –" Wade started to ask, before Sam shushed him.

"Yes, I need a serial number traced," she said into the phone. "Of course. The number's Z9325-BR893-H724S." After a moment of silence, Sam scribbled frantically on the slip of paper Wade had handed her from his memo book earlier. "Thank you. You, too." She flipped Wade's phone closed and handed it back to him. "Sold to a Janice Larson, 2286 Exeter Road, in Bethesda."

"What did you mean, 'skills'?" Wade asked; it was obvious from his manner that he felt he could have done just as good a job at getting the info they needed.

Sam chuckled, "Sweetheart, just _why_ do you think I hate the phone so much?"

"Telemarketing?" Jimmy hazarded a guess.

"Almost," Sam nodded. "Customer service. It's how I got pocket-money during my first two runs through college. Get yelled at enough over the phone, you'd hate the damn things, too."

"Move over," Wade said, wheeling Sam away from the computer and ignoring the aside between the ME's assistant and Samantha. "It's my turn." He knelt at Ducky's desk and started typing. "There she is – gimme a sec." He flipped his phone open and entered in a number.

* * *

As the clock ticked around to five-thirty, Tony sighed and tossed his pen down on his desk. "Well, that's it – no way to trace the paints used. Sometimes I hate it when they go with the mass-produced, can-buy-it-at-WalMart stuff." He stretched and stood before stepping over to hover at the edge of McGee's desk. "You getting anywhere with the whachacallit-goo?"

"The ballistics gelatin?" Tim supplied, referring to the main component of the body's 'flesh'. Tony nodded. "Some. The art-supply place it was shipped to closed down six weeks ago, though."

"So no chance in finding out who it was sold to," DiNozzo scrubbed a hand across his face. He yawned and flopped back onto his chair, at a loss as to where to go next with their investigation. The dog-tags on the 'body' had proved to be nothing more than the custom novelty sort that any one of a dozen stores had machines to engrave, the kind of machine that also dispensed pet-tags.

"Not from the store records, at any rate," McGee agreed, fighting off the urge to mimic Tony's yawn. "At least, not unless we're willing to wait six or eight weeks for a subpoena to unearth the records from bankruptcy court."

Tony stared at his computer screen for a full minute. "Why _make_ a body, Probie?"

"A warning?"

"Left in an ice cream freezer? What, was he not a fan of rainbow sherbert?"

"Nah," Tim retorted. "It was that pumpkin flavor they came out with last Halloween."

Tony let out a halfhearted chuckle. "That _was_ pretty gross. But it doesn't answer the question; why _make_ a body?"

An unfamiliar woman's voice supplied the answer. "Because it's my ticket to the big time." The voice was low-pitched and sexy, with a faint trace of Atlantic Georgia in her vowels.

Tony plastered a bright smile on his face before looking up, opened his mouth to speak, and then caught sight of the speaker. His smile quickly morphed into a grimace. "And you are…?"

The woman was in her mid-twenties, with long, stringy brown hair, thick glasses that made her mud-colored eyes look extraordinarily large, and was wearing a turtleneck in the world's ugliest shade of yellowish-green (despite the fact that it had been hovering around the ninety-degree mark for the past week) over a brown linen skirt that nearly brushed the floor and which had definitely seen better days. In her hands was a battered straw 'purse' which had likely started its life as a beach tote. The woman smiled, revealing perfect, toothpaste-commercial white teeth. "Janice Larson," she replied. "I'm working on my degree in Applied Art."

Suppressing the shudder that wanted to escape at the woman's appearance, DiNozzo finally managed to look past her to see Wade standing at the edge of the MCRT's corner of the squad room. Tony's 'smile' became slightly more genuine when he spotted the lab rat's expression; it didn't take much to spot the 'oh, _fuck_, what did I get myself into' hovering behind Wade's eyes. Tony and Tim exchanged a quick look, full of promises to drag the whole story out of Wade later, before they took over as Miss Larson's escort.

Wade made a hasty – and silent – escape while he could.

* * *

When Gibbs returned from his latest coffee-run (the thermos from Samantha had only managed to tide him over until lunchtime), he almost literally ran into McGee as he escorted a pissed-to-the-point-of-tears (and undeniably _ugly_) woman out of the building. He waited for his agent before heading for the elevator. A quick glance that McGee correctly interpreted soon had the junior agent talking.

"That was Janice Larson, boss. She's the one who made the body from the Baskin Robbins. Apparently, she was expecting police involvement, not us, but she was trying to get a little press coverage in hopes of wowing some Hollywood effects crew into taking her on when she finishes up her degree at the end of the summer."

Gibbs shook his head – the stupidity of people never ceased to amaze him.

Tim continued, "Apparently, the uniform belonged to her older brother, and the reason we couldn't get a hit on the mannequin's fingerprints is because – aside from the skeleton she used as a base – _everything_ about it was a figment of her imagination."

"What about that bond?"

"She had no idea what it was. She inherited it from her grandfather. Too bad she didn't know what it was before pulling this…stunt, or whatever you want to call it."

Gibbs let out a small snort. "She can use it to pay the fine, I'm sure."

"Yeah, but it won't start to touch on her legal fees once the ice cream shop gets around to pressing charges for breaking and entering. And whoever owns that branch of the franchise also has a pretty solid case for a defamation of character lawsuit."

The elevator came to a stop and Gibbs looked over at McGee. "You been dating outta the legal pool again, McGee?"

Tim blushed a little – and really, that was all the answer Gibbs needed.

* * *

**A/N2:** I have absolutely no idea if my 'punishment' for Janice was anywhere close to reality – I couldn't locate any info on just what the real ramifications for what she did would be, so I just made a guess. If anyone of y'all know better, lemme know and I'll go back and fix that part. And yes, I know it's about half the length of my preceding chapters have been, but I figured y'all would want a shorter chapter now than being forced to wait who knows how long for a full-sized chapter. If it helps, think of this as chapter '8.5'.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I stand by my note from SSS wherein I explained my theory behind Gibbs being a repressed psychic – keep that in mind as you read the last segment for this chapter.

If anyone has a better translation for 'Expensive Restaurant' in French, let me know – I'm running off of the interwebz on this one, folks, and y'all know how 'reliable' online translators can be!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Ten_

"Wouldn't that just be our luck?" Dr. Hampton chuckled lightly while Ducky escorted her through the doors of Restaurant à Prix Élevé. "The _one_ night we both manage off in six months, and the entire cast of _Uncle Vanya_ comes down with food poisoning!"

Ducky echoed her laugh, "I quite agree, Jordan. However, I do hope that they all feel better in time for the noon showing tomorrow – even though we may not be able to enjoy a night at the theatre, far be it from me to wish such a fate on other patrons of the arts!"

"Name?" the maître d' asked, a light smile on his round face to contradict every possible stereotype concerning the profession – indeed, this particular maître d' would have made quite a passable Santa come Christmastime.

"Dr. Mallard," Ducky replied, matching the maître d's smile with one of his own. Between the good cheer of the two older gentlemen, there seemed to be a warming of the emotional temperature of the room by a good ten degrees.

"Ah, yes! You called to see if we'd any last-minute cancellations. Pity about the play – I'd heard it was quite an experience." The maître d' motioned for a waitress to show Ducky and Jordan to their table.

"Yes, quite. Here's hoping they're all well soon, however. And that I find time to go see their performance."

"Quite indeed. If you and your guest would follow Janelle, she will show you to your table."

The waitress was tall, of Asian decent, and wouldn't have looked out of place, dressed as she was, in a corporate office's high-rise, _behind_ the heavy oak desk. The only two additions to her attire that would have seemed wrong in the CEO atmosphere were the small engraved-brass nametag she wore on her navy blazer's breast pocket and her sensible, heelless shoes (made for walking for hours on end, not for showcasing how much money she made). "Right this way," she said, her smile rather more professional than that of the maître d', but then again, she did have more personal interaction with the customers than he did. The table she showed them to was in a very good spot – not too far from the lavatory and with a good view of the dance floor. Once Ducky and Jordan were seated, Janelle asked, "Do you know what you would like to drink, or shall I give you a few moments?"

Knowing full well that even though they technically had the night off, an emergency could call one or either or both of the medical examiners back to work at a moment's notice, they both ordered sparkling water, and began perusing the menu. "I've had the lobster here before, but I don't think I want something quite so rich tonight," Jordan commented.

"Well, if you're wanting seafood, their seafood parillada is quite good," Ducky advised.

Jordan shook her head, "No… I'm thinking something a little lighter. Maybe chicken."

"In that case, my dear, there is always the ever-popular coq au vin." Eventually, the pair made their choices and chatted amicably about their latest cases. Jordan was both amused and in awe of the fake body that had been the latest guest to Ducky's domain. They were just finishing up their first course when a voice, somewhat louder than normal conversational tone and overlaid with frustration, derailed the conversation at their table.

"'With a fool no seasons spend, nor be counted as his friend' – that General of yours is a _fool_, honey! Why can't you see that?"

A masculine rumble of laughter answered the irate female inquiry, and returned fire with, "'When the wind blows from the east, expect the new and set the feast!' I _know _he's a fool, sweetheart. That's what makes this so funny. The wind's been outta the east for three days now, and tonight's the full moon."

The two voices overlapped, "'When the moon rides at her peak, then the heart's desire seek'." The woman continued, "Yes, I realize this. All the signs point to good things on the horizon, all I'm saying is to be _careful_, Quin. I may trust you with my body, heart, soul, and mind, but them? I don't trust _them_ with _yours_."

"You didn't trust Becky, either," the man's voice pointed out.

"Becky's a good girl, I'll give you that, but she's a freakin' _muggle_. I've seen parakeets with more psychic ability than your sister's got."

The conversation at the next booth over returned to a more appropriate volume for the time-being. Responding to the thoughtful look on Ducky's face, Jordan asked, "What is it?"

"I believe I know who is sitting at yon booth," Ducky replied. "Would you care to dance?"

"You just want to make sure you're right."

Ducky nodded, "Of course, dear Jordan, but it _does_ give me the excuse to share a fine waltz with a beautiful woman, as well!"

The duo only looked slightly comical out on the dance floor; Ducky in a finely-tailored, yet understated tuxedo, was quite a bit shorter than Dr. Hampton in her goldtone slip-dress and low-heeled matching sandals. What they provided in eyebrow-raising amusement they more than made up for in actually knowing what they were doing. They remained out on the hardwood floor for several songs, their conversation picking up where it had left off at the dinner table with nary a mislaid train of thought.

On their way back to their table, Ducky smiled to himself when he saw that his earlier assumptions were quite correct. He and Jordan paused at the table. "Samantha! How pleasant to run into you here."

Sam looked up and grinned, "Heyla, Doc. I was just talking about you – all good things, too, I promise!" She gestured to a handsome fellow in Army dress blues sitting across the table from her. "This is my better half, Quin. Honey, this is Dr. Mallard, the medical examiner I work with."

Quin extended his hand, "Pleasure."

"And this," Ducky indicated Jordan, "is my counterpart at DC Metro, Dr. Jordan Hampton."

"If you two have already eaten, feel free to join us for desert," Samantha invited.

The pair of medical examiners shared a quick glance before replying, nearly simultaneously, "Don't mind if we do."

* * *

Gallegos was one of the DC area's best-kept secrets; part authentic Mexican restaurant and part sports bar, it was tucked off in a corner of the city (and in looking at a map, one would see that it was almost precisely halfway between Wade's apartment and Tim's) rarely seen by tourists, and as a result, its clientele consisted entirely of locals. Its atmosphere was, by and large, comfortable, with a preponderance of old-school wood, leather, and polished brass, yet it maintained a 'lived-in' feel that many bars that had been open for years tried and failed to achieve.

The three big-screens hung at strategic points around the bar were all showing the Twins play the Red Sox at Minnesota. The crowd, equally split between both men and women and those watching the game and those otherwise engaged in other pursuits (including darts, cards, and pool), was in good spirits, but not rowdy enough that there was any danger of high tempers leading to cutting an evening short.

"Nice place you got here, Harper," Tony commented as he and Tim joined Wade at a tall table equidistant from the bar, the two pool tables, and a corner table of pretty women.

Wade shrugged, "I like it. What's even better is that it's walking-distance to my place."

They'd just put in an order for some deep-fried bar-food and a pitcher of beer when Palmer arrived, Wade's buddy Jay close on his heels.

The five men spent most of the evening engaging in the friendly sort of one upmanship that happens whenever more than two males and alcohol mix. All-in-all, not a bad way to spend a Friday night.

* * *

Abby's evening was passed quietly at home, returning emails from friends, in between watching a horror-movie marathon on Syfy (the predominating theme of which seemed to be giant bugs and amateur special effects). Finishing her email correspondence, sparing a moment of concern that she hadn't heard back from Ziva (but it _had_ only been about three weeks since she had decided to stay in Israel), Abby turned her attention to her new helpers at work.

_I suppose it could have been worse,_ she thought. _I mean, well… Just look at what happened with Chip! But I don't get any freaky evil vibes off of either Sam or Wade. Sure, Wade gives off some strong vibrations, but they're not altogether unpleasant. _Abby smiled and curled up on her couch under a fleece throw printed over with skeletal bunnies. _I still don't really get why Sam doesn't want to head her own lab. She's got the education, the experience… Why doesn't she want a position as anything but an assistant?_

Tiring of B-grade acting and effects, Abby flipped through the channels until she landed on Comedy Central. _Thinking of Sam – what should I take to her barbecue tomorrow? Nothing too hard to make ahead of time… Maybe Gramma Scuito's potato salad?_ She glanced to her under-equipped kitchenette. _Maybe not. Some chips? Nah, too easy. _As the stand-up comedian on her television went through his ill-conceived routine involving half-thought opinions on race relations and politics, Abby mused on what she should take along.

* * *

The bar where Ryan Parker met up once every other week or so with Daniel Sanderson wasn't nearly so comfortable to its patrons as Gallegos was; indeed, it catered to up-and-coming politicians and their guests almost without exception. But Parker was one of the few non-political individuals who found the stifling, competitive and petty atmosphere conducive to conversation and his own self-image.

Sanderson, on the other hand, didn't enjoy the place nearly so much, but as long as Parker was picking up the tab, he wasn't going to argue any. Besides, the bartender made a pretty passable mojito – a necessity for someone who'd transplanted from southern Florida.

After four hours of rambling conversation, which _always_ came back to Parker bitching about that 'snot-nosed kid' who had wound up with what Parker considered to be 'his' position at that federal lab, Sanderson had had enough. Besides, for all that Parker was a competitive fellow – something Sanderson usually enjoyed about Parker – he was giving off this weird _obsessive _air that was souring Sanderson's alcohol.

When they finally left that night, Sanderson took a cab back to his apartment in Chevy Chase. As he locked the door behind him, he thought, _free drinks or not, Danny, I think it's time to find some new friends. Parker… He was good for a laugh, but he's losing it._

* * *

Without his boat to work on, the majority of Gibbs' downtime was spent reading. Contrary to most expectations, he didn't read magazines – not even _National Geographic_ – but rather books. His latest was the collected works of Charles Dickens, and somewhere in the middle of _David Copperfield_, he'd dozed off in his armchair, feet propped up on the coffee table.

As the fire in his fireplace burned down to embers and a light breeze blew through the open widows, his dreams drifted like a rubber raft on the open ocean from one topic to another, from one confusing scrapbook scene to another, never making much sense.

"_Who do you work for?" an accented voice, hidden in the shadows, punctuated by the sloshing of liquid in a canteen._

"_But, I've got some information that might prove useful," Sam reached around Wade and tapped Abby on the shoulder. "Bring up the photo, yeah?"_

"_Don't you think it's about time we fill the empty chair?"_

_The brunette girl ran crying out of the room. So much for being unflappable. Maybe Harper could lend a hand next time they got a call-out._

_Hot sun and hotter sand and wind driving the blistering particulate through the air, peering through a scope into a dark room… He had to take it on faith that the shadow that paced back and forth in front of the window was the bad guy they were after. There was so much to take on faith… Too much._

_Not again, not another hostage situation inside their own damn building!_

_Mimeograph ink still smelled the same, but the most concerning issue with the power outage was where in the _hell_ was he going to find more film cartridges for the Polaroids? To say nothing of the flash-bars…_

He startled himself awake at 0330 Saturday morning, the echoing sound of a gunshot overlaid with feminine sobbing ringing in his head. The dream faded, leaving just a faint impression in his mind to be revisited later as bits and pieces of various cases came to light. He sat his book on the end table and levered himself out of his chair, heading for the kitchen and its promise of quality caffeine.

He didn't even have to consider just what he'd be bringing to Sam's cookout – his family-recipe barbecue sauce, even though it took a good six or seven hours to prepare ahead of time, was always well-received.

* * *

**A/N2:** I _finally_ got to see S7E1 – my DVDs arrived Thursday-before-last, but I only got to E6 before I took off on a 3-day weekend (the Grand Canyon is really _really _pretty!) and when I got back Sunday night, I only made it through the end of _Power Down_ before crashing; I've been spending the rest of the time between then and now catching up on both the show and my sleep (not to mention working on an original fiction piece that refuses to let me do the rough draft on my computer – it's insisting on being written longhand in a b&w comp notebook). Hopefully, the next update won't take quite so long!

Oh, and 'Uncle Vanya' is a play by Chekhov (a Russian playwright/author of the 1800s); I was forced to translate portions of the damn thing in one of my Russian culture/language classes back in college. Just in case y'all were wondering.

And keep in mind I rarely write romance. I'm merely running with the relationships already presented on the show, and the way I see it, Ducky and Dr. Hampton are simply very good friends who might one day explore something further, but for now are happy with where things stand.

Why did it take until season seven to see the inside of Gibbs' house? And when are we going to see the inside of Tony's apartment? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the latest – the next chapter will focus on Sam's barbecue, which I know many of you have been looking forward to (and I promise, it'll probably wind up being one of this tale's longest chapters).

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I've said it before, and I'll say it again – having to work for a living sucks _ass_. I meant to have this out about two weeks after I posted the last chapter, but RL stepped in and said, 'Oh, no you don't!' Sigh. Maybe _this_ time, my lotto ticket will win more than two or three bucks. Anyway, I should also mention that I don't own _An Irish Lullaby_; I don't think _anyone _actually _owns_ that song, though Bing Crosby did a recording of it once upon a very long time ago, nor do I have anything to do with any of the nearly-innumerable versions of _Whiskey in the Jar_ that have been recorded over the last sixty years or so (again, that one is one of those songs that no one should lay sole ownership to – it's too bloody old).

And if anyone doesn't know, a 'gross' is a unit of measure, meaning a dozen dozen, or 144 to be precise.

I say it again in the A/N2, but I should put it here, too: This chapter isn't done yet, but I thought y'all would want something shorter _now_, rather than having to wait for-freakin'-ever for me to find the time to wedge in more time to work on this sucker.

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Eleven_

Just south of a nowhere burg by the name of Monrovia, Maryland – which, in turn, wasn't all that far from being spitting-distance from Fort Detrick – a narrow, washboarded and potholed strip barely wide enough to accept a standard sized car peeled away from State Highway 75 in a generally easterly direction before twisting and turning through a hayfield, some thick trees, over a small stream (which sported decent fishing anytime it wasn't froze solid), through more trees, across a set of railroad tracks, and finally came to a circular dead end at the midpoint of a skewed, sorta-rectangular swath of knee-high green grass and wildflowers growing up around the Irving household, and surrounded by still more trees.

The house itself was something of a sight to behold; what had quite obviously started its life as a simple stick-built farmhouse (more likely than not purchased direct from Sears & Roebuck around the turn of the last century) had apparently found the climate of the eastern seaboard much to its liking and had grown wild as the flowers in its yard. Standing in the driveway's turnabout, facing the house, the left side of the building had an obvious late-Victorian-era addition, complete with 'princess tower' and was noticeably taller than the rest of the building. The middle section – the original house – was two stories tall, with space for a short-ceilinged attic or a tall-ceilinged crawlspace. The far left side of the building was but a single story tall, and seemed to be rather longer than the rest of the house, though it was a little difficult to tell from the drive.

More remarkable than its hodgepodge structural factuals was its color scheme. The wall facing the drive was a bright, cheery yellow, but the Victorian tower had been painted pale pink (nearly matching the wild roses which grew in the turnabout's center circle) and the wall which angled front-to-back of the middle section's second story was a deep green shade, with undertones of blue. The front-to-back wall on the first floor was an orange-red tone, normally only seen in poppies. The roof – the only bit of the visible portion of the house which seemed remotely normal, save for the white trim around the doors and windows, done up in normal dark grey-black asphalt shingles – was also somewhat less-than-usual; lines of rope and stout-looking wire were affixed to the roof's sloping surface, to the walls where they rose above the roofs below, and to any structure which poked up through the roof itself (such as the three chimneys visible from this side). One of the rope-getups that had been secured from the peak of the middle portion's roof to the midpoint of the lowest section's roof (of the three, the left's roof was the least-angled) looked like nothing so much as a cargo-net 'ladder', much like those seen at any child's playground in the nation.

Trellises decorated all visible walls at the ground level, usually sporting some vine whose flowers were a direct contrast to the walls behind. Nearly unnoticed in this riot of color and chaos and confusion was a dirt track leading around the tall end of the house. If one followed this narrow track, they would soon find that the back walls continued with their bright and merry one-color-per-wall scheme and that the one story side of the home was indeed about three times longer than the house proper, making an L shape which hugged a mass of toys scattered around a larger-than-life oak tree, from which hung a worn-out old tire on a thick hank of sturdy rope. One could also see the slide which sloped downward from the roof of the long arm of the L, forming yet another seemingly-protective 'hug' around a large rosebush with blossoms of pale blue-violet.

Once the house itself was out of the way, a visitor to this house on the border between reality and fantasy could see a garage, painted sensible white (but whose trim around the doors and windows had obviously been done with the leftover bits from the main house), down a short hill, just to the right of a large red barn. A series of fenced enclosures – some large and grassy, some small and dusty – spiraled out from the barn to the forested edge of the clearing, and a duck pond sat at precisely the midpoint between garage and barn, but no white ducks graced it with their presence. No, it was the less common wild variety which cooled their feet in its murky waters, and no goats, pigs, sheep, or chickens marred the barnyard with their presence. Instead, a pair of pretty buckskins and a palomino grazed peaceably near the pond side of their enclosure. In addition to the horses, the only other animals not decreed to be there by nature were the cats (which had numbered thirty-nine the last time any one had bothered to census them) and Lazy, the golden retriever who spent most of his time asleep on the front porch.

Dawn was just starting to kiss the eastern horizon when Quin's inner alarm told him it was time to shake dreamerie from his mind. Had this been a working day, he would have gotten up, started the coffee for Sammy, and then checked the corkboard by the phone to see whose turn it was to make breakfast. If it was his turn, he'd grumble under his breath and make either oatmeal, malt-o-meal, or grits – for all that he could cook, and enjoyed doing so, he wasn't all that fond of breakfast in particular. He much preferred it when Sammy had to cook breakfast. _She may wind up burnin' down the house some day by trying to make mac'n'cheese, but she can make pancakes and hash browns and waffles fit for a king. Her lasagna's good enough to kill for. Huh…I've wondered before and I'm sure I'll ask it again in the future, but how come she can't make nothin' that's not either breakfast or lasagna?_

Since it _wasn't_ a working day, Quin allowed himself a brief lie-in. He couldn't bring himself to be too lazy, though; it just wasn't in his nature. Even when he was a kid, he never slept much past dawn, unless he was sick. Besides, he needed to tend the horses – today was Aaron's day off. Aaron DeParr was a recent retiree and their hired-man who took care of the livestock and any minor repairs that surfaced around the house.

Eventually – meaning about twenty minutes after waking – Quin stretched and pulled himself out of bed. The movement woke Sammy and her head turned to face Quin's side of the bed even as the rolling stretch started creeping up from her toes. While Quin pulled on a pair of jeans and a worn t-shirt, Sam's stretch finished its journey with her customary yawning squeak. "Coffee?" her bleary voice demanded.

"In a bit, Sammy," Quin replied, sitting on a folded quilt that topped a chest packed full of winter bedding that rested at the foot of their four-poster bed. He pulled on a pair of socks and smiled lightly at Sam's petulant groan. "Aaron's off today – horses before humans."

"Sure, throw my own words back at me, why doncha." Sam emitted another squeaky yawn before stumbling blindly towards the bathroom. "Coffee," she demanded on passing Quin.

Quin sighed and shook his head. _Don't ever change, hon. _He padded out of their bedroom and down the hall to the second bathroom in that part of the house. Fifteen minutes later, he was marginally more aware and presentable. He flicked the switch on the coffee-monster as he crossed the kitchen, headed for the mudroom and his boots.

A word about the coffee-monster – it was far from a normal coffee maker. Coffee makers tend to come in three styles: a percolator, a drip, or the fancier espresso-style machines. The monster was something of a cross between an espresso-machine and a whiskey still out of the hills of Tennessee. The original monster had been developed by Sam's father, long before Sam had been born, and the basic concept was to keep the temperature of the coffee at precisely two-hundred degrees Fahrenheit while extracting the maximum amount of actual coffee from the grind without losing any of the flavor or subjecting it to possible scorching. The original monster did this by manual monitoring of heating elements (with a standard candy-thermometer, secured through the side of a giant economy-sized percolator that had a steam-pipe which reprocessed the steam back through the coffee). The incarnation of the coffee-monster which graced the Irvings' kitchen was somewhat more high-tech. In place of the candy thermometer, there was a digital, computer-controlled heating element which forced hot water through the grind at high pressure, while high-density plastic tubing routed any steam which tried to escape back through the brewed coffee.

The result of this contraption was a cup of coffee which possessed the maximum possible content of coffee flavor and aroma (not to mention a higher-than-average caffeine content).

Quin sometimes joked about having married Sam for unlimited access to her coffee-monster.

Outside, Quin quickly tended the horses – he forked some hay into their stalls, should they tire of the grass outside, and made sure the water trough was full – and then took a few minutes to simply enjoy the daylight slowly creeping its way across the landscape. In truth, he was also enjoying the silence. _But I'm also looking forward to the kids coming home today. When'd Becky say they were coming back? Eleven? Sounds about right._ If Sam hadn't already made plans for the day, he would have headed for Beer Run Brook and spent the day fishing, likely fending off offers of help from Phoenix off and on until the sun set. But Sam had invited a passel of her new coworkers over, and so Quin had a list of crap to get done before they showed up.

First things first, he headed to an incongruously-paved spot about halfway between the barn and the house; the paving was red brick, about ten feet by twenty, roughly ovoid in shape, and encircled a permanent brick-lined pit dug into the ground. He got the fire going in the barbeque pit, using hickory logs others would have called whole trees, and set up the iron stands that supported the roasting spit. Then he headed back to the house and helped himself to some breakfast. Sam left a note on the dry-erase board on the fridge that let him know she'd headed to the grocery store to pick up the last of the supplies they'd need for the day while he'd been dealing with the barbeque and horses.

Once he'd had just enough to keep the edge off until later – namely, some peanut butter on toast and coffee – Quin got out a large pot and filled it slightly more than halfway with water, adding some white vinegar and salt before setting it to boil on the stove. When the water started boiling, he carefully dropped whole eggs into it, one at a time, until all three dozen were out of their cartons.

While the eggs boiled, Quin then got out the ingredients for bread, and set to making enough dough for a gross of dinner-rolls. If there were any left, dinner rolls froze nicely, and they had a walk-in in the basement, so he wasn't going to get too worked up in either case.

Sam got home while Quin was in the middle of kneading the giant ball of dough on the stout kitchen table. She lingered in the doorway, admiring how the resistance of the dough made the muscles in Quin's arms and shoulders pop with definition and move oh-so-prettily under his tee. "You just gonna stand there and watch?" Quin asked.

"Nope, but I still gotta take the time to admire the view," Sam retorted. "Anyway, picked up everything that was on your list. You gonna help me schlep it all in?"

Quin finished manipulating the mass of dough into a roughly-spherical glob and nodded. "Yeah. You get the spit washed?"

"Last night, after we got home."

"Good," Quin eyed the ball of dough on the table one last time before turning to face Sam. A grin flashed across his face when he saw that she was wearing her one all-black shirt.

Reading the mischievous glint rightly, Sam backed away from Quin's flour-coated self as he stepped towards her. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"Yes," Quin replied, then lunged in Sam's direction. Sam squealed and ran down the hallway towards the side-door that opened onto the 'playground'.

* * *

Gibbs didn't particularly care that he was nearly two full hours early – _If no one's home, I doubt they'll care if I take up space in their driveway 'til they get there_. The day was absolutely stunning; one of the very few days wherein the weather was perfect. It was about seventy-six degrees, with just enough breeze to keep the air from feeling stuffy, bright blue skies and clusters of friendly blobs of clouds steadily moving across the sky while subtly changing their shapes from one moment to the next.

He veered off onto the gravel trail which Sam's instructions informed him would lead to her house, a rooster-tail of dust pluming up behind his Challenger. Had he not had the driving experience he did, the road likely would have had him inching his way along – some of the potholes were large enough that a low-riding car could risk a cracked axle if they weren't careful. Gibbs made a mental note to call Ducky and warn him; the road would be particularly unforgiving to the wooden frame of the doctor's Morgan.

The car rattled across a narrow wooden bridge over a deceptively deep stream (at either end of the bridge was a cockeyed, hand-painted sign which proclaimed the waterway as 'Beer Run Brook' – though he knew from maps of the region that the small stream didn't have an official name) before following the 'road' through the thick, dappled shade and up a small rise. On cresting the rise, Gibbs was startled out of his thoughts by the sudden appearance of a rather tall-looking horse, whose coat was the same shade of pale yellow as the dust his car kicked up along the drive with white mane and tail, ridden by a kid of perhaps ten years, who wore a blue denim jacket, jeans, and whose curly orange-red hair was shoulder-length and shot through with streaks of pale orange and blonde; the color of the kid's hair was such that it looked like the kid's head was on fire as the motion of the horse rearing up at the sudden appearance of Gibbs' Challenger caused it to flicker in and out of spots of sunlight.

In less time than it took to realize what he'd seen, Gibbs' hands and feet were working on instinct, tapping the brake and swinging the car around the horse. The right rear tire slipped off the graveled surface and caught the edge of a jagged drainpipe, hidden from view by the thick underbrush. The metal gouged a substantial hole in the tire, and as Gibbs wrenched the wheel back around to get the car on solid ground, it sent a distinctive shudder through the classic car. With his pulse thudding at his temples, Gibbs spotted a trail crossing the drive just ahead – the trail was merely two dirt tracks with a strip of lethargic grass growing in the middle – and limped his car to a stop. He got out of the car to make sure the kid and horse were okay, only to see that the kid and his palomino were less than a dozen yards away.

The horse was more interested in the mass of green at the edge of the drive than the humans, but the kid was glaring at Gibbs with all the anger a preteen could muster. "You okay?" the kid asked.

Gibbs nodded. "Don't think my car will ever be the same, though. You?"

"I'm fine," the kid's reply was clipped and over-enunciated, much like the short bursts of anger more common to someone twice his age.

The kid shifted a little in his saddle, and Gibbs realized that the kid – ten or not – had a loaded slingshot in hand. The slingshot wasn't any kid's toy, either, but a legitimate hunting weapon, capable of putting a piece of lead shot through a deer skull at full draw. He didn't _think_ the kid was quite strong enough to pull it to full draw, but Gibbs thought it best to err on the side of caution. _Besides, I just about ran him over – I'd be a little jumpy, too._

Gibbs held his hands out, much like he'd done any one of the countless times he'd been forced to approach an edgy and armed perp throughout his career without the benefit of his Sig in hand. "What's your name, kiddo?" he asked, smiling.

"Michael Patrick O'Shaunessy," the kid replied.

"Well, Michael Patrick O'Shaunessy, I'm Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs replied, taking another step towards the horse and rider. "I work with Sam," he said, unsure if the kid considered Sam to be his mom, an aunt, or something else entirely.

"Just stay right there, mister." The kid shifted in the saddle again and Gibbs stopped. The palomino made a whuffing noise and lifted its head to stare first at the kid and then at Gibbs. The horse pawed the ground twice, then went back to grazing. "I know, Prissy," the kid muttered, patting the horse's neck. "I saw it, too." The kid's eyes didn't waver from Gibbs'. "Can you prove you work with Mama-Sam?"

"I don't know how you expect me to prove that without her here," Gibbs replied.

"You'd best think of something," the kid replied.

"She makes some of the best coffee I've ever had. Brought me a thermos of it yesterday – big green metal thermos with a handle."

The kid nodded. "Okay." Without warning, he stood in the stirrups, drew the slingshot up, and let fly with a muted _thwap_ of the elastic.

Gibbs had a split-second thought of _Why, that little snot!_ before he realized that the kid hadn't been aiming at him at all, but at something on the ground about halfway between them. It took a moment for him to realize just what he was looking at was the still-twitching body of a northern copperhead – one of only two venomous snakes native to Maryland. A neat hole was punched through the snake's head, precisely equidistant from side-to-side and Gibbs would bet money that what had once been the snake's brain was smeared into an identical little hole in the dust under its gold-and-brown patterned body.

The kid climbed down from his horse and tucked the slingshot into a holster tied to his right thigh. His left sported a sheathed fillet knife, and there was a small, shallow basket threaded around his belt, just to the rear of the slingshot. "Stay put, Prissy." The kid then headed for the snake and picked it up with one hand while drawing the fillet knife with his other hand. "So…" he said, somewhat friendlier than he'd been thus far. "You work with Mama-Sam?"

"Sure do, though she works in the lab."

The kid made short work of beheading the snake. "That means you don't. You must be one of the…" he searched for the right word while making a long slit down the snake's belly. "Agents?"

"Yeah."

The kid nodded, "Agents, then." With the snake split open, the kid wiped the knife clean on the leg of his jeans before returning it to the sheath on his thigh. He then reached into the snake and ripped its innards out. The guts were secreted away in the covered basket on the kid's belt and the rest of the snake was coiled into a saddlebag. "You don't talk much, do ya, mister?"

"Not much, no."

The kid just nodded again. "Good. Look, you can either walk up to the house, or you can come with me – either way don't matter much to me – I just got a coupla chores to get done with first."

"I'm in no rush," Gibbs replied.

The kid snorted. "You always drive like that when you're not in a rush?" It was Gibbs' turn to nod. The kid shook his head, "I feel sorry for the other drivers, then, and grateful I ain't gonna be driving for another six-and-a-half years. Though I gotta say, if you drive like you do _all the time_, it's probably a good thing your car's bright yellow."

Gibbs chuckled. "Probably so, kiddo," he replied.

The kid grinned. He wiped his grimy hand on his jeans and held it out to Gibbs, "Call me Phoenix."

"Gibbs," the agent replied, and shook the kid's hand.

"Can you ride, Gibbs?"

"Yeah, I can ride."

The kid's grin brightened. "Well, come on, if you're coming. Daylight's wasting, and I still have a frog to find for Katty." He climbed into the palomino's saddle and waited while Gibbs used the back of the saddle to pull himself onto the horse as well.

Ten minutes of companionable silence later, the horse was picking her way through the thick underbrush of the forest, heading for Beer Run Brook, and the faint melody Phoenix had been humming under his breath finally emerged in actual singing, "Over in Killarney, many years ago, me mother sang a song to me, in tones so sweet and low. Just a simple little ditty, in her good old Irish way, and I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me this day." Even though Phoenix didn't have much of an accent, a strong Irish brogue flavored his singing. Gibbs was nearly positive it wasn't faked – more mimicked from a distant and hazy memory; he recalled that the boy had gone to live with Sam when he'd only been five years old. He joined in on the song's chorus. "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li, too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry, too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li, too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby." Phoenix continued on with the second verse solo, as Gibbs could only recall the chorus. "Oft in dreams I wander to that cot again. I feel her arms a-huggin' me as when she held me then. And I hear her voice a-hummin' to me as in days of yore, when she used to rock me fast asleep outside the cabin door." They sang the chorus twice over, and then Phoenix signaled Prissy to a halt in a grassy area on the bank of the stream.

Gibbs slid off the horse and took in the sights – not that there was all that much to see, but he'd been nearly caught once today by the local wildlife, and that was one time too many to his way of thinking. The clearing was maybe a twenty-foot circular triangle, with one side delineated by a curve of the stream, the second by a tall stand of raspberry bushes, and the third was the way back to the road. A nylon rope angled out from roughly the middle of the stream, which was about fifteen feet across and muddy enough he didn't even want to guess at its depth, and was tied off on a tall maple tree.

Phoenix swung out of the saddle and told Prissy to 'stay' again, then headed to the nylon rope. Though it was obvious the kid didn't really need the help, Gibbs lent a hand in hauling a string of five conical mesh traps out of the brook. The first two were mostly-empty, save for some smallish crawdads, but the other three each held at least two eels apiece. While transferring the eels to an empty saddlebag and re-baiting the traps with the contents of his little belt-basket, Phoenix once again started singing. This time, it was _Whiskey in the Jar_, the same version that Gibbs vaguely recalled from radio broadcasts from when he was in junior high. He couldn't recall precisely who had recorded that version, but he thought it might have been the Grateful Dead, but he wouldn't swear to it.

"The shining yellow coins did sure look bright and jolly, I took the money home and I gave it to my Molly, she promised and she vowed that she never would deceive me, but the devil's in the women and they never –" a muffled squawk of garble and static interrupted the song. Phoenix sighed and pulled a small CB radio from an inner pocket of his jacket. "Yeah, Mama-Sam?"

"You about done? Quin's wondering where his raspberries are."

"Be done soon, Mama-Sam. Just got done with the traps – got seven eels this time."

"I'll let Quin know. You hurry, though. It's creepin' up on two. I'd like it if all you little hellions could be made somewhat presentable before everyone starts showing up."

"I'd get done faster if you'd quit jawin' at me."

A growling sound answered Phoenix's reply. "Don't take that tone with me, Phoe. I'll make you have stable-duty all next week. I'm sure Aaron would like the extra time off."

"Noted, Mama-Sam. I'll be home soon."

"See that you are." The tone, distorted though it may be through the radio, was definitely one which allowed no room for argument.

Phoenix returned the radio to his pocket and untied the bucket from the saddle-horn. He thrust it in Gibbs' hands and gestured to the stand of bushes off to the right. "If you don't mind?"

"No problem." It had literally been _years_, maybe even _decades,_ since he'd last picked wild raspberries, but his hands remembered the trick to avoiding the thorns.

The smallish bucket (which had once housed ice cream) was about halfway full when Phoenix finished with the eel traps and shimmied his way up the tree where the traps' haul-rope had been secured. Gibbs paused and watched as the kid patiently fed the traps back into the stream, one at a time, leaning far out over on the branch. When the last of the rope was played out, Phoenix swung down out of the tree with all the agility of a young chimpanzee and joined Gibbs at the stand of raspberry bushes.

It took less than fifteen minutes to fill the bucket with berries, even though half of all the ones Phoenix picked wound up in his mouth.

* * *

**A/N2:** Aside from work, the main reason this was so long in coming is that though I could see the inside of Sam's house quite clearly, I hadn't seen the outside. This is one of those times when the story surprised even _me_. And yes, it's not as long as I'd promised, but I figured y'all would rather have something _now_, rather than having to wait who-knows-how-long for me to get the time to sit down and finish this to the point I'd planned.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Would someone kindly explain to me how come, even though I'm not a big chocoholic and I'm not all that fond of hazelnuts, I can't turn down a slathering of Nutella on a slice of sourdough? I find it puzzling.

Anyway, I make mention of Valentine Rossi in this chapter; his introduction was in _Whiteout_, but though I've carried the character into this story, I'm undecided if I want to make the two (three, counting _Sand, Sun, and Sotol_) as all the same universe. Lemme know your opinion on the matter, please.

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Twelve_

At a quarter to three, Ducky babied his Morgan over the Irvings' driveway, thankful for the heads-up from Jethro, while regaling Jimmy with a rambling tale of a summer barbecue he'd attended as a lad between semesters at Eton. "…and then, much to the surprise of us all," Ducky was saying while deftly navigating his car, "Joseph's pet mongrel jumped right into the center of the pudding –" his tale abruptly halted as the car crested the low slope which had, together with the trees, conspired to keep the Irving house from sight. "Good lord," Ducky breathed.

Palmer had to grin at the brightly-colored house. "It looks like a gingerbread house," he said, then chuckled.

"Not the paint, Mr. Palmer – look to the roof." Ducky gestured to three small figures chasing each other over the surface of the roof. As the car came closer, the ropes affixed to the roof's surface resolved themselves to sight.

Palmer's grin evaporated – his eyesight was slightly better than Ducky's, and he could tell that the three figures were all children, and couldn't help but imagine the sort of damage a fall from that height could cause someone his size, let alone what it'd do to a kid. It wasn't until the Morgan had rolled to a stop behind a fully-restored red, white, and chrome VW mini-bus that they could see that the children were wearing climbing harnesses, clipped to stout wire runners secured alongside most (though not all) of the ropes.

Sam had heard the car pull up and was waiting on the porch with two small children racing around her, much like moons orbiting their parent planet. "Hey, Doc," she greeted the ME, sidestepping her offspring and pushing open the screen door.

Realizing someone new was there, the twins came to a screeching halt, stared at the newcomers as they climbed out of the car, and immediately had diametrically opposite reactions: The one with pigtails binding her rich red hair clung to Sam's right leg and buried her head in the denim of Sam's jeans while the other one, with hair so short it had likely been buzz-cut, grinned widely and raced down the flight of six stairs which connected the porch with the turnabout, jabbering a mile a minute until he tripped over his own feet. He didn't hit the ground, though – Palmer had managed to scoop the kid up before any damage had been done. He set the kid down and tugged the little boy's t-shirt back into place. "You okay?"

The little boy nodded emphatically, "Yes. Fable," he said, pointing to himself, before resuming his animated chatter. Jimmy could only really catch one word in three, but the boy seemed to be explaining how they were going to have a barbecue that day and he really wanted to help his dad, but his mom was being mean and keeping everyone out of the kitchen.

In order to move, Sam had been forced to pick up Grace; the child then hid her face in her mom's neck. "Fable! You can chat with Jimmy later, okay? Why don't you and Grace go play in the back yard?"

That caught Grace's attention and she finally turned her face in the direction of Palmer and Ducky. "Fable! Mama ou tel nalliash!"

The little boy laughed and raced back to his mom, "Cha! Cha! Nalliash!" He tugged on his sister's ankle. Sam leaned down and set Grace back on her feet. The twins quickly disappeared down the stairs and around the house.

Straightening out, Sam lightly rubbed her fingertips at her temples. "Headache, Samantha?" Ducky asked, opening the trunk of his car to retrieve his and Jimmy's contributions to the barbecue.

Sam dropped her hands, "No more so than usual, Doc. Just frustrates me when they go all twinspeaky on me." She joined him and Jimmy at the car. "They've talked since they were eleven months old, but it hasn't been until the last year or so that they've talked to anyone but each other." She sighed. "Only other person in the house who can understand them when they do that is Hope."

Plucking a good-sized cardboard box out of the trunk, Jimmy's grin returned. "Cryptophasia – that's what it's called – we had a chapter on it in the class I took on childhood development."

Sam shrugged, "Don't really care what it's called. Just wish they'd grow out of it already."

While helping Jimmy and Ducky schlep in a couple of bags and boxes – Ducky had brought along a decent supply of the team's favored beverages (including a large cooler with drink-spout of Caf-Pow for Abby) and Palmer supplied a couple of cases of beer and a galleon-box of decent red wine along with a wide assortment of chips – Sam explained the rough layout of the house, making sure the bathrooms were pointed out. Setting the supplies on a tiny fragment of counter, she told them to make themselves at home and mentioned they were free to explore. Quin didn't even appear to notice they were there; he was too focused on filling hard-boiled egg halves with deviled-egg filling from a pastry bag.

* * *

As his Porsche bounced over the gravel-pitted track masquerading as a driveway, Tim alternately winced and filed away the experience for later use in his writings. His brain couldn't help but supply him with a seemingly endless supply of synonyms for 'rough'. He was arguing with himself as to whether or not 'craggy' could apply to a road as his Boxter crested the low hill to reveal Samantha's home – the color scheme jarring enough that he failed to notice two children _playing on the roof_.

"Well, _that's _something you don't see every day…" He was unaware he'd voiced the thought out loud.

He pulled into the turnabout and parked behind Ducky's Morgan just as something bright yellow exploded with a _splash_ across his windshield. It took perhaps a moment longer than it should have for his brain to realize it had been a water-balloon; _But that's what happens when you work at a place where getting shot at is a regular occurrence. At least I have the top up._ He looked up towards the porch, the only logical place from where the balloon could have been lobbed, only to find that the porch was totally deserted.

Curious, he turned off the car and climbed out. Childish shrieks filled the air, followed by a girl's voice shouting, "Missed me, missed me, now ya gotta kiss me!" Then a boy yelled back, "Like hell I do!" The voices were coming from _above_ him. The next few moments seemed to happen in slow-motion.

Tim looked up to see a brunette girl of about twelve or thirteen swinging back and forth along the edge of the roof, tethered to a sturdy-looking rope, as a blue oblong arched past her shoulder.

"You throw like a girl!" the almost-teen shouted to the unseen thrower-of-balloons.

Focused on avoiding the landing point of the blue balloon, Tim took a couple of steps to the left, the sound of another car approaching barely registering. The balloon splashed down, soaking his legs from the shins down. His footing slipped a little on the gravel surface, and tore Tim's attention from the girl on the roof – he didn't see the pink balloon come sailing over the edge.

Tony's metallic blue Camaro pulled to a stop just beside and behind Tim's Porsche.

The pink balloon landed squarely on the top of Tim's head. It seemed to bounce slightly, almost as though it couldn't decide whether or not to rupture, before the pink simply disappeared and released its icy contents to spill across McGee's head and face, trickling down his neck and quickly soaking into his green t-shirt.

The sight of McGee's WTF face – combined with his newly-acquired drowned-rat look and the shreds of pink stuck in his hair – was almost too much for Tony; he started laughing so hard, it took him three tries to get his door open.

Tim wiped a hand across his face and scowled at his partner. "Sure, laugh it up, DiNozzo."

Tony, still chuckling, approached Tim. "It's a good look for you, Probie."

Neither of them saw the next balloon until it exploded on Tony's chest, leaving fragments of red clinging to grey cotton. It was Tim's turn to snicker at the cold-water shock face. It didn't last long, though. Tony glanced up at the roof and his expression morphed into a diabolical smirk. "You think Sam's got a couple of squirt-guns around here that we could commandeer?"

A rarely-seen, but equally mischievous look surfaced on Tim's face. "Couldn't hurt to ask," he replied. "Just lemme get the coleslaw I brought and we can go ask her."

They avoided two more water balloons while Tim retrieved a bucket of coleslaw from Marco's Deli and Tony grabbed an enormous disposable foil-pan of something from his back seat. As they mounted the stairs to the porch, Tim gestured to the pan. Tony shrugged a little. "Isn't much of a barbecue without the Rossi Family Fruit Salad," he explained, the capitals obvious in tone.

"Rossi?"

"Valentine Rossi. Roommate in college. Went through the academy together in Illinois," Tony clarified as he reached up to knock on the screen door.

Before his fist could connect with the wood, however, Sam's voice echoed from somewhere just to the right of the door, "Come on in, guys!"

They entered and paused a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine outside. Sam was tethered to a telephone handset, the cord impossibly long and twisting around a doorway at the end of a hallway. "No, I hadn't heard, Andy. That's great news, though. He's been away too long as it is… Uh-huh. Yeah… I know. Hey, I really gotta let you go – I got some friends coming by for barbecue. Okay. Will do. Send Uncle Jack my love. You, too." The faint noise of dial-tone signaled the end of the conversation and Sam turned her full attention to Tim and Tony. A small grin played at the corners of her mouth. "Come on, then. Kitchen, first, then we'll stop by the laundry. I think Quin's done with the eggs – bread should be going in the oven shortly, and the two of you can give him a hand spitting supper."

The two agents shared a confused look, but trailed behind Sam as she followed the telephone cord down a hallway where one of the three doors was open far enough to see that it was a half-bath, through a library (the room contained more books than either had ever seen outside an actual library, as well as several ugly, but comfy-looking chairs), and into a massive kitchen. An extremely solid, battle-scarred wooden table took up a large chunk of the floor space. Tony's eye for dimension told him it could easily accommodate six formal place-settings on either of the long sides, and two on each end, but he doubted that it had ever been used for anything more formal than a family Thanksgiving or Christmas gathering. Size aside, it still seemed to groan under the weight of a massive ball of dough.

Standing at the table, a large chef's knife in hand, and wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a flour-dusted green barbecue apron was a tallish man with dark brown hair in a standard military-buzz. He was rapidly dividing the lump of dough into precisely equal portions, roughly the size of golf-balls. "Hey, honey. Could you do me a favor?" he asked, not looking up from his task.

"Whacha need?"

"Could you grab one of the kids? This'd go a little faster if we had one setting the trays."

"No problem," Sam replied. "By the by, this is Tony and Tim." She gestured to each in turn, even though the man's back was to her. "Guys, this is Quin. You brought anything that needs 'fridgerated?" After confirming that was, indeed, the case, Sam cleared a space in one of the kitchen's _two_ fridges. Seeing their questioning expression, Sam explained, "This one's for food. The other one's for beverages and bait – the whole house likes to go fishing." She slid the foil-covered tray onto a shelf, sat the bucket-container of coleslaw on the shelf above it, and closed the door. "Got a walk-in freezer in the basement, too."

Samantha then showed Tim and Tony to the laundry area – it was just off the kitchen and down three stairs, floored in terracotta tile that indicated it had once been a back patio area, but had since been converted to a mudroom. A mountain of shoes and boots were piled haphazardly under a row of winter coats and rain slickers on hooks next to the back door. An old-fashioned open-top washing machine, complete with hand-crank and wringer, stood in the corner furthest from the door, nestled between a sink nearly large enough to bathe in and a modern Maytag washer. The dryer stood along the outside wall, a long table connecting it via false-countertop to the sink. On either side of the stairs were a pair of particle-board barrels, the one on the right empty, the one on the left half-filled with dirty jeans, socks, and t-shirts.

While Sam retrieved a couple of ragged-looking towel scraps from a cardboard box under the table, Tony nudged Tim and mimed a squirt-gun. Tim shook his head, and replied with an 'after you' gesture. A rumbling pattery noise sounded directly above them, with slightly muffled shrieks, and a distinct shout of 'get back here, you little thief'.

Sam sighed and handed the two agents something to dry off with. "Sounds like Hope's winning," she said.

"Winning what?" Tony asked.

Tim snorted, "Does it matter?"

Sam chuckled. "You're an only child, aincha?" she directed at Tony, who nodded in reply.

Tim shrugged, "Got a little sister."

Sam nodded knowingly. "Anyway, feel free to explore the place, just don't go too far into the forest without an escort – wouldn't want you to get lost. I think Jimmy's over in the arcade and last I saw him, Ducky was out visiting with the horses."

Tony immediately forgot about the possibility of a little wet revenge on the rugrats. "You have an arcade?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Some of Capcom and Atari's best 8-bit productions. Two pinball tables, too. Got 'em at auction a few years back, before Quin got stationed out this way, when the arcade back in Fort Riley upgraded their systems. It's off that-a-way," she pointed in the direction of the 'princess tower' on the Victorian side of the house.

Tony leveled a quick grin at Tim, then disappeared. Tim was almost positive a smoke outline lingered in the air for a moment, like something out of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. _So much for that, I guess._

Samantha laughed quietly. "Somehow, I'm glad I didn't mention the theater. Suppose he'll find it, though. It's easier to locate than the arcade is."

"You have an arcade, a library, and a theater?" Tim blinked at his hostess.

Sam shrugged again. "Sweetie, this house has twenty-seven rooms, not counting closets, bathrooms, or the basement. Just about the only thing we _don't_ got is a TV or computer room." Seeing Tim's expression, something that blatantly asked for more input, Samantha motioned for him to follow her as she stepped outside. "This land had been in Quin's family since… Well, since Mount Vernon was still blueprints, to hear Quin talk. But it went to his uncle. After his uncle died, his aunt tried selling the place, but no one really wanted a house this big, let alone one out in the 'middle of nowhere'. So, when Quin was transferred out this way, we bought the place from her. Found out when we got here it was a helluva lot bigger than he remembered it being." They halted halfway between the back door and the slide. Sam turned her attention to the roof and yelled, "Hey, children! Your dad's in need of a helper with the bread!" Moments later, all three appeared on the visible side of the lowest portion of roof.

Tim watched as a quick round of rock-paper-scissors determined who would be banished to the kitchen. The shortest of the three – a brunette with _extremely_ short hair, wearing a pair of teal overalls and a pink t-shirt giggled madly and tore across the roof to the slide. She unclipped something and slid down. Once on the ground, Tim could see that the girl was wearing some sort of child-sized climbing harness. "Mama! I won!"

"So I see," Sam replied. She shooed the girl off towards the kitchen. "Hurry and maybe Dad will let you cut some of the dough, too."

After Hope had disappeared back into the house, Tim asked, "So… How come you don't have a computer room?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him, "Would need a computer first, kiddo. And I hate those damn things. Did all my papers on an old IBM Selectrix. It'll continue to do for me until the kids start high school. I'll get 'em a cheap laptop then, and not before."

"What about email? The internet?"

Sam had to laugh at Tim's aghast expression. "Just 'cause something's new, don't make it better. All the computer savvy in the world ain't gonna help ya if the batteries are dead. Besides, there's a reason I don't trust computers."

"Why's that?" Tim asked.

Sam started walking down towards the barn, where Ducky was petting the nose of one of the buckskins. "When I was in high school, Uncle Jack jumped on the computer bandwagon and brought home a brand-new computer with Windows 3.1 on it. I, of course, thought that it was the coolest thing ever. At the time. This was… Oh, October of '92 I think. Anyway, fast-forward a few months to the end of my freshman year. I was finishing up my report on the Civil War as my final project, worth over half of my grade, for American History. I was just compiling the bibliography when a thunderstorm kicked up about twenty miles from the homeplace. Knocked the power out milliseconds before I was going to hit 'print'. Lost _everything_."

"1993?" Tim was a little puzzled. From the research they'd done, he knew Sam would have only just turned eleven that summer. "High school?"

Sam shrugged. "I was home-schooled until that year. To figure out what grade I belonged in, I sat for placement tests."

Tim nodded, a few pieces of information finally clicking into place; primarily just how the twenty-eight year old could have had time to amass two Bachelor's degrees, a Masters, and a Ph. D. while maintaining a growing family. "I find it hard to believe that a single lost report would be enough to trigger a lifelong hatred of computers."

"Well, that was just the first bad experience. The second came a couple of years later. When I was sixteen, I started going to school at the U of I. Three days before Christmas break, I was approached by some FBI agents. Apparently, someone out there had hacked the school records and stolen my identity. It took almost two years to clean up that mess, and a further six to get everything removed from my credit report. That was strike two against technology." Sam paused to push the main door to the barn open. The strong scent of horse and hay drifted out, laced through with motor oil and tinted with light traces of leather. "Strike three happened just as I was finishing up my Masters. I'd been shopping around for a new car and thought I'd found the perfect one. Was a brand-new, power-everything-with-leather-seats job. I had it all of a week before the radio started changing stations on its own, the windows rolled themselves up and down, and the lights would randomly turn on and off. Found out the computer chip the thing had in it hadn't been built properly and as a result everything it had a hand in controlling was subject to random and unpredictable activation. The mechanic I'd taken it to said I was damn lucky it hadn't engaged the brakes or messed with the steering."

Tim chuckled. "I suppose I can sorta understand the computer thing. But how come you don't have a TV?"

"Simply don't got the time for TV," Sam replied. "Besides, rumor has it that there isn't anything worth watching on it anyway, so why bother? If I want to kick back and watch something mindless… Well, that's why we got the theater."

Tim couldn't argue with that, and followed Sam as she stepped into the dimly-lit barn.

* * *

Ducky patted the more slender of the buckskin horses on the nose and turned to head back to the main house. He paused for a moment on the brick paving surrounding the merrily-crackling barbecue pit and simply breathed in the fresh country air for a moment. Regardless of the overly-colorful nature of the house – _or should that be _because_, at least in part?_ – the Irvings' home was… Peaceful. _No, that's not quite right. Autopsy is peaceful – most of the time, at any rate – but I believe the word you're looking for here is 'warm'. Perhaps 'cheerful'. Inviting? Friendly, definitely._

Smiling to himself, the ME strolled back to the house. _Much like Samantha herself – colorful, friendly. Warm, open, peaceful. _A shrill shriek pierced his thoughts as Ekaterina chased Michael across the middle portion of the roof, deftly switching safety-wires from one runner to another without pause. "Maybe not so peaceful, but the rest remains accurate." Chuckling, Ducky entered the laundry room and climbed the short series of stairs to the kitchen.

"…careful. Remember why?"

Ducky saw Quin and the girl in the overalls and pink t-shirt focusing on the ball of dough on the table. The little girl nodded vigorously. "'Cause even though it's not a knife, if I pull too tight, the string can still cut me, too."

"Absolutely, my little hummingbird," Quin replied.

Ducky watched silently from the doorway while the father-daughter duo worked together to divide the wad o'dough into smaller portions. About five minutes passed before Quin, who had yet to turn around, asked, "There somethin' I can help ya with, Doc?"

"Not at all, my dear fellow, though I would be willing to lend a hand, should it be necessary."

Quin shook his head and tossed a quick, boyish grin over his shoulder at the ME. "Nah, the day I need a guest to help out in the kitchen is the day Sammy spreads my ashes on Lake MacNulty." He gestured with his chin towards one of the somewhat scarred, mismatched chairs. "However, your company is more than welcome."

Ducky took a seat in the empty chair at the head of the table, to the right of the little girl, diagonally across from Quin. The girl flashed a pair of dimples at him and turned her head almost completely off her shoulders before asking, "Are ya really a doc, like on Bugs Bunny? 'Cause I ain't never met one a'fore."

"Hope. 'Doc' is short for 'doctor', hummingbird," Quin interjected, somewhat more loudly than Ducky felt was reasonable, considering the small transistor radio atop the refrigerator – tuned to a classic rock station out of DC – wasn't loud enough to interfere with conversation.

The girl whipped her head around, "Huh?"

"'Doc' is short for 'doctor', hummingbird," Quin repeated, taking care to speak clearly.

The way the girl held her head, with her left ear cocked towards her dad, led the doctor to conclude that she had some sort of hearing impairment. "Ooh," she said, before returning her attention to Ducky. "Do ya give folks shots?"

Ducky chuckled, "Not often, my dear. Most of the people I see are already dead. My job is to find out how they died."

Hope looked confused. "Iffen they's already dead, why would ya need to give 'em a shot?"

"Not all of my patients are dead. Sometimes, I have to help the people I work with."

"Oh." Seemingly satisfied for the moment, Hope returned her attention to segmenting the dough.

* * *

"Hey, Zack!" Becky cheerfully greeted the tall, thin, brunette man hovering near the cash register of Monrovia's one and only gas station/garage. "How's business?"

"Booming, Becks – can't you tell?" he gestured at the deserted waiting area, consisting of a mismash of faded plastic and rickety-looking metal chairs surrounding a sad, listing little coffee table in the L of clear glass that looked into the garage proper.

"Anyone ever tell you no one likes a smartass, Zacky?" Becky smirked.

Zack held up a socket wrench mock-threateningly. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"

"Yes, yes, you'll bean me on the head with a tire-iron and toss my remains down your well. Might wanna hold off on that, Zacky-baby. I got me a witness today," she motioned to Gibbs, just now entering the shop.

"Witness, schmitness."

"Wouldn't say that if I was you," Becky singsonged, and leaned against the counter. "May I present one of Sammy-girl's new coworkers, Special Agent Jethro Gibbs."

Zack smiled widely, "No way!" He literally jumped the counter and enthusiastically greeted Gibbs. "I've heard stories about you, man!" He held out his hand, "I'm Zachariah Zelwicky, you served in Desert Storm with my dad – Corporal Zeke Zelwicky."

Gibbs laughed, "Yeah, I remember Zeke. What's he up to nowadays?"

"Oh, he lives down in Santa Fe, along with stepmom number three. I actually have hopes that this one will last."

"Anyway," Becky interrupted, "we did come here for a reason."

"What, you weren't coming just to bust my chops for once?"

"Nah, I can do that any day, snore. Got a flat for ya."

Zack weaved back behind the counter and shuffled through a stack of yellow post-its. "I got Davis's Dodge ahead of ya, but he ain't gonna be done in the bar 'til six. Why doncha bring it on in. Shouldn't take more than ten or fifteen."

Gibbs decided to step up and clarify the situation a little. "No, no need to fix it – I hit a chunk of something that tore a major hole in the sidewall. No way to fix it. Just need a replacement mounted and balanced on the rim."

"In _that_ case," Zack looked unaccountably serious, "it'll still take fifteen minutes or so." He ended with a grin.

* * *

Tony easily located the arcade by following the distinctive noise of, of all things, _Dig-Dug_ and Palmer grumbling to himself. Stepping through the door into the room was like walking through an archway straight back in time a good ten – _cough, twenty, cough_ – years, to the arcade that used to stand on the corner across from Mario's Pizza Palace. Both locations had claimed every spare penny he'd earned while at Rhode Island Military Academy. _Hell, even the walls are the same purplish color the arcade had. Only thing different is the windows._ Both tall, narrow windows had shades drawn and heavy drapes that allowed minimal light through.

"Argh! I used to be _good_ at this one!" Palmer hit his fist on the console and sighed in defeat before turning around. "Hey, Tony."

"Jimmy. _Dig-Dug_? Seriously?" he quirked a mocking eyebrow at the ME's assistant.

Palmer merely shrugged. "_Duck Hunt_?"

"You gotta be kidding me," Tony chuckled. "I carry a _gun_, for cryin' out loud. You really wanna challenge me to a _shooting_ game?"

Eight minutes, twenty seconds later, Tony was regretting his words. Palmer was, to put it bluntly, handing him his _ass_ on a silver platter made of eight-bit pixels. So, when the left-hand window suddenly slid open and the blind went _thwappityippty_ around the spinny thing at the top, he was a little grateful for the distraction. However, as Kat raced through the room, accidentally ricocheting off Palmer, who managed to get knocked to the floor, grabbing Tony's shoulder and bringing him along for the ride, he wasn't as happy about it as he could have been. Heartbeats later, Phoenix wriggled through the open window.

A green water-balloon was splatted in Jimmy's hair, and a blue one splooshed across Tony's lap on the boy's way past.

"That's it," Tony growled. "I'm gonna _kill_ those little ankle-biters."

* * *

A mostly-restored, cherry-red 1916 Series E Stutz Bearcat with wire wheels took up most of the open floor space of the barn. A workbench not unlike the one in Gibbs' basement graced one wall, and the opposite wall held the inner doors to the loose-boxes where, presumably, the horses were kept at night.

Tim couldn't look away from the Bearcat – the car really was absolutely beautiful, gleaming brightly in the sunlight streaming through the now-open barn door. "Where did I leave that…" Sam mumbled to herself as she rummaged around the unidentifiable piles of metallic junk on the workbench. "Ah-ha! Gotcha, you little fucker." She spun around with a small black metal thing in hand and had to smile brightly at Tim's appreciative leer. "Told ya – or maybe I didn't… Can't remember. Anyway, I got some weird hobbies."

Considering his boss tended to build boats in his basement and he had a habit of 'improving' the computers he bought, Tim figured they were probably even, teamwise, on the 'weird hobbies' score. "It's definitely pretty," he said.

"Thanks. Got a collector interested already. Just need to finish connecting the electrics."

"What's something like this going for these days?"

"Not as much as I could get for her at auction, but more than I put into her, that's for damn sure. Two and a quarter."

Tim coughed, "How many zeros follow that?"

Sam smirked, "Three. Could get close to half a mil if I auctioned her, but Kirkland's an old family friend."

Tim couldn't help it, he choked a little. However, his coughing fit was interrupted by Palmer. "Hey, Sam? You got any squirt guns around here?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah – check the toy room, top of the tower."

Palmer ran out just as quickly as he'd appeared a "thanks" trailing behind him.

"Not gonna ask why?" Tim asked, the cost of Sam's little 'hobby' momentarily forgotten.

"Why bother?" Sam replied. She meandered around the car and headed for the door. "Come on, let's head back up to the house before someone winds up needing stitches."

After closing the barn door, Sam and Tim walked side-by-side towards the barbecue pit. She held out what she'd dug out of the pile of junk on the workbench. It was a wrought-iron rose. "Think Abby will like it?"

Tim laughed. "Sure – she'll love it."

* * *

Wade easily navigated around the potholes lining Sam's driveway, the low rumble of his Harley announcing his arrival long before the rooster-tail of dust peeked above the low slope hiding the house from the approach. As a result, both Kat and Phoenix were lying in wait, lurking in the shadows between a large shrub Wade couldn't name and the crawlspace under the porch. He'd barely gotten his bike properly parked before they attacked, thrusting a Super Soaker in one hand and a bandolier of water-balloons in the other.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I'm Kat, this is Phoenix, and we need help! Please! Tony and Jimmy are –"

"Coming around the corner! Run!" the boy tugged on Kat's shoulder and the duo sprinted for the far corner of the house.

An extremely wet Palmer and thoroughly damp DiNozzo skidded to a brief halt next to Wade. "Gonna use those?" Tony asked.

Wade looked from his coworkers to the squirt gun and back. He smiled, "Sure. Just lemme get my backpack inside. Where's the kitchen? I brought potato salad – four quarts – and it really should be put in the 'fridge 'til we're eatin'."

Palmer provided a quick description on where to locate the nearest refrigerator while Tony jogged to catch up to the panicking children.

Once the salad was stowed and greetings exchanged with Ducky and introductions made to Quin and Hope, Wade checked the Super Soaker and slung the bandolier across his chest. _Tony and Jimmy are _so_ going down._

* * *

**A/N2:** Aside from some moron driving his pickup through my apartment (which in turn took over a month to repair), I really don't have an excuse for how long this chapter took to post. Sorry. As a consolation, however, it _is_ a bit longer than the other chapters have been. The next chapter will conclude the barbeque (all three of which had originally been planned to be but a single chapter, but hell – I figured y'all would want _something_ rather than wait for my life to settle enough for me to write it all in one go).

Also, I've not had a chance to check my reviews in a long, long, _long_ time, but I know the last time I'd done so, someone had expressed an opinion that Sam was rather 'MarySueish', to that I'd like to reply that this is _technically_ a crossover – Sam and her family actually are from an original fiction piece I've been working on, but I needed to iron out a few details of personality and history for her. So, she's a main character from another universe altogether (and I had a hell of a time figuring out how to put her into this 'verse without completely restructuring it), not an over-developed side-character. Besides, she'd been bugging me about meeting Abby for a long time. Thought I'd better humor her, else she just might decide to vacate my head altogether and leave me without a main character for her story.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'NCIS'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I've decided I'm going to quit apologizing for how long it takes me to post something. We all know that RL sometimes just doesn't allow us the time we would otherwise wish and at other times muses simply shut up and drift away for a spell. Anyway, this chapter wraps up the barbecue. Happy reading!

* * *

**The Goth, the Cowboy, and a Mom**

_Chapter Thirteen_

"Mama-Sam!" Phoenix's voice cut like an axe across the yard, "Kat's –"

"Any bones broke? Any blood gushing?" Sam yelled from the porch.

"No, but –"

"Then I don't wanna hear about it!" Samantha turned to Abby, who had just arrived. "Sorry. Come on, the kitchen's through here."

Abby clung a little tighter to the handle of the bucket containing five gallons of fudge ripple that she'd brought along. She was still of two minds about this whole barbecue thing. _Oh, come on, Abby, if you can't be honest with yourself – admit it, you still don't see how someone like Dr. Carpenter-Irving_, she almost winced at the level of venom her inner voice laced through her new 'assistant's' name,_ is happy being the low girl on the totem pole._ Abby pasted a fakeish smile on her face as she followed Sam into the house.

Not three feet into the house, a pair of high-pitched shreeks sounded, and a pair of tiny redheaded children ran screaming from the foyer. Among the shrill noise, there was a host of babble Abby had no hope of deciphering and a single word that stuck to her brain like glue – the one with tennis-ball fuzz for hair had screeched 'vampire' as he disappeared with his sister. It made her smile a little more genuine until she realized she'd likely scared the poor kids.

As Sam led the way through a library and into the kitchen, Abby passively took in the surroundings, noticing that the books on the shelves didn't seem to have much order in how they were stacked – she saw a textbook on art history of the fifteenth century sandwiched between a Chilton's manual and a leather-bound collected works of Hans Christian Anderson – and that the inside of the house was exactly like the outside in that is was… So _not_ what she'd been expecting.

"Hey, honey," a man Abby hadn't yet met, and as a result could only be Major Irving, stepped away from the double-stacked ovens and wiped his hands on a dishrag. "We're out of shortening and running dangerously low on sugar. Thought you went to the grocer's yesterday?"

Sam sighed, "I did, but neither of those were on the list; you got no one to blame but yourself. If you call Zelwicky's, Becky might still be there – she can pick some up on her way home."

Quin glared at the phone and quickly stepped over to the stove. "Could you? I'm a little busy here – don't want the filling to burn, do you?"

Sighing again, Sam shrugged, "I'll do it in a minute, but if they've gone by the time I get to it, then don't blame me."

She moved across the kitchen to a door standing between an old fifties-style refrigerator and a more modern side-by-side with ice/water in the door. It turned out to be the door to the basement. Sam flicked a switch at the top of the stairs and motioned for Abby to follow. "Basement?" Abby asked as unwanted scenes from uncountable horror films flickered through her brain.

"Yeah, gonna hafta put the ice cream in the walk-in, the freezers upstairs are about as packed as they can possibly get."

They walked through an area devoted to rows of shelves of home-canned foods. Abby noticed that none of the labels were in Sam's handwriting. "You do all this?"

Sam snorted, "Nope – Quin swears one day I'll wind up burning the house down trying to make mac'n'cheese. He's the chef, though Becky doesn't do too badly, either." At the end of the rows of shelves was a large metal door. "Here we are. You hold the door, I'll put the ice cream away."

The inside of the door was completely smooth – it had no inner door handle. _Answers why she's having me hold the door._ It only took a few moments before Sam rejoined her. "Now that's done… Last I saw, Hope had hijacked the Doc into telling her stories out on the tire swing. Tony, Tim, and Jimmy were being chased by Wade, Kat, and Phoenix – not too sure who was winning, but Tony was wettest. Quin's, as you saw, making something delicious in the kitchen."

"Where's Gibbs?" Abby couldn't help but ask as she followed Samantha back to the stairs.

"He hit something on his way in; Becky took him and the flat tire in to Monrovia to get it fixed. They should be back soon." On arriving back in the kitchen, Sam headed for the telephone hanging on the wall. "Make yourself at home, Abby," she said over her shoulder while picking up the receiver.

Abby wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself, but the scent of something fruity and sweet had her standing just out of Major Irving's way while the man stirred a long-handled wooden spoon through the purple, bubbling contents of the single largest cast-iron skillet she'd ever seen. After dialing a number, Sam ducked out of the room. Major Irving's eyes flickered briefly in the direction his wife had gone before he turned his head and smiled at Abby. "So you're the one that Sammy's all worked-up about."

Abby blinked in surprise. "Pardon?"

Major Irving just shook his head a little and smiled at her. Switching the spoon to his left hand, he held out his right. "Quin," he said.

"Abby," she replied, automatically shaking the offered hand. "What did you mean?"

Quin returned his spoon to his dominant hand and split his attention between the bubbling berry mixture and Abby. "Just that Sammy mentioned you seem threatened by having her at work with you."

Abby winced a little. "Could be. I just don't get her, though."

Quin's pleasant expression morphed a little. "Yeah. Samantha has that effect on just about everyone. Main thing you gotta keep in mind with her, though – what you see is pretty much what you get. In all the years I've known her, the closest she's ever come to lying about _anything_ is when she attempts to sugar-coat something." He let out a chuckle. "And even then, her feelings on whatever it might be are pretty damn obvious."

Before Abby could reply, Sam reappeared and hung up the phone. "The sugar and shortening have been ordered, hon," she said. "Gibbs and Becky should be back in fifteen or twenty, depending on how long the lines are at the store."

"Samantha! Save me!" Overlapped the sound of the back door slamming shut. In short order, a drenched preteen girl had burst from the mudroom and taken cover under the dining table.

Abby watched as Sam pinched the bridge of her nose, her glasses nudged momentarily askew. "What is it this time, Kat?"

"Tony and Jimmy found out that it was my idea to balloon them in the arcade and they've teamed up with Tim and Wade and now Phoenix won't help me and Hope's not playing any more!"

Sam sighed. "Go upstairs and get dried off, Katling. It's time to get the meat started anyway, otherwise we won't have supper 'til midnight." Kat scurried from under the table and ducked around the half-height wall that separated the kitchen from what would normally have been a formal dining area, but was currently set up with two worn couches and a couple of armchairs. After the girl had gone, Sam strode over to the door through which Kat and arrived. Unsure what else to do, Abby followed her. She arrived at the doorway in time to see her host grab hold of an antique crank-handle, attached to a boxy object set into one of the windows of the mudroom.

A loud, warbling wail screeched into existence, and Abby realized that the item was an old-fashioned air-raid siren. Within moments of Sam starting to crank the handle, _everyone_ showed up – the members of Abby's team wearing curious expressions, while Sam's family simply filed into the mudroom. Kat arrived wearing a bathrobe, and the two small children which had disappeared on Abby's arrival followed her closely.

"Okay, all," Sam said. "Enough roughhousing for now. We need to finish getting things together." Abby glanced over her shoulder to meet Quin's amused grin as he listened with one ear while still tending his pie-filling. "Kat, you finish getting dressed and have Jimmy and Tim give you a hand setting up the tables in the yard, okay?" Kat nodded and hurried back to wherever her room might be hiding. "Phoenix, you're going to help your dad." The skinny boy with flaming orange hair echoed his foster-sister's nod and stepped over to the mudroom's sink to wash up. Over the noise of the faucet, Sam continued, "And if we expect to have meat with our supper, I'd like a hand getting it out to the pit. So, if you would, Tony, Wade?" Abby repressed a small smile to see that both men had unconsciously mimicked Kat's and Phoenix's nods of agreement. Sam didn't make mention of it either, but simply concluded, "Doc? Do you mind continuing on with Hope, and maybe my other two, while you're at it?"

"Certainly, Samantha," Ducky replied. He leaned down and spoke next to the short-haired brunette girl's ear. "If you would gather your younger siblings, I will continue the story I was telling."

The little girl grinned and took the twins' hands. "Ahn-aye, Fable. Ahn-aye, Gracie. Story time! Ti alwyn ni sharaneth!" The two smallest children giggled and began pulling her out the door, towards Ducky.

"What can I do to help?" Abby asked when Sam finally motioned for Tony and Wade to follow her.

Sam halted in her steps, almost as though she'd forgotten Abby was there. "If you're up to it, I'm sure Quin wouldn't mind a third set of hands."

While Sam lead Tony and Wade into the basement, Abby finally got it. _It makes so much more sense now. She's head-honcho at home, so it's no wonder she's not interested in doing it at work._

* * *

Four hours later, just as the sun was beginning to dip below the western horizon, Abby reclined back on a quilt and stared up at the first stars beginning to twinkle overhead. She was pleasantly full and feeling content and sluggish.

She felt more than saw Tim take a seat next to her on the ground-cover. "This was a pretty good day," he said.

Abby nodded. "Yeah. It was a good idea on Sam's part. We'll need to do this more often."

"What? The barbecue?"

"Not necessarily. Just hanging out together, outside of work." She propped her arms behind her head and rolled a little so she could look at McGee. His face and arms were slightly sunburned, but he looked more relaxed than he had in a good long time. Abby's eyes flickered to the rest of the team and realized that same sentiment could be applied to each of them.

Tim followed her gaze and knew where her thoughts were heading. "I agree. We don't do a whole lot with all of us there, do we?"

Abby didn't bother replying – the question had been rhetorical, after all. Seeing everyone together, though, made her miss Ziva all the more. "Do you think she'd like Sam and Wade?"

Even knowing Abby as well as he did, it took Tim a moment to figure out that she'd meant Ziva. "Dunno for sure, but I think so. Have you heard from her lately?"

Beyond Tim, Abby could see Tony, Jimmy, Quin, and the children toasting marshmallows over the glowing embers in the barbecue pit. Abby shook her head. "Not since that email right after Tony and Gibbs returned without her. What about you?"

"Only that same email, Abs." Tim sighed. "I'm… I'm worried about her."

Abby looked away from the pit and back at Tim. "Me, too."

* * *

It had taken quite a lot of doing, and he now owed several people favors, but he'd _needed_ the information. He wouldn't have known how to keep it from happening again, if he didn't have as complete a data-set as possible.

Some discrete shadowing based on the data he'd secured had him approaching the beautiful secretary he recalled from his interview while she had dinner at a small café not far from the interstate. She was sitting at the counter, rather than at a table or booth, so he'd simply taken the empty seat to her left.

It wasn't all that hard to engage her in conversation. It had been as he'd assumed – she dealt with far too many people on a daily basis to remember him.

It might have cost his wallet a little over twenty bucks, and it cost him a good four hours of time, but he walked away with the information he needed.

The phone number the woman had scrawled on a bit of napkin was discarded on the wind.

Parker returned to his apartment, his mind repeating the one piece of pertinent information he simply couldn't force his attention away from: There had only been three interviews for the two open positions within the lab.

So, how in the _hell_ did that _kid_ manage to secure one of the spots?

* * *

**A/N2:** I'm not going to promise anything about when the next chapter will be up for this - I've learned my lesson, thankyouverymuch. In either case, I think my muse for this is back on speaking terms with me, so I've hope yet that I'll manage to finish it.

Remember to lemme know what y'all think.


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